


Her Dark Madame

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intrigue, M/M, Multi, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry is dead. Ron is dead. Voldemort is dead? Neville is missing. Hermione is all that’s left of the Order and she’s been on the run for years even as a new political group seizes power of Wizarding Britain. When her luck runs out and her magic is all but gone, she does the one thing she’s been avoiding for five years. She seeks refuge with the Madame- a mysterious brothel owner who’ll protect her if Hermione doesn’t mind selling her soul to the depraved and ridiculously wealthy. All things considered; it's a fair trade.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 46
Kudos: 42
Collections: 2020 Dramione 50k Classic





	1. Limbo-Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. Thank you to my alpha and/or beta for their time and help.

Despite the complete teardown of social systems, health care, housing, and financial institutions, Wizarding Scotland was bloody beautiful in mid-winter. She’d slept underneath the thatched roof of an abandoned garden shed the entire week, but Hermione found the still, white snow wondrous as it cozied up around her.

This landscape reminded her of snowball fights, warm fireside cocoa, festive yuletide celebrations, and tickling beards nuzzling her forehead, as strong arms carried her all the way home from the Christmas parade. She snuggled closer to her patched-up quilt as she remembered her father’s loud laughter and the smell of her mother’s spicy perfume. These were the melodies that patted her to sleep on winter nights. Now, they provided the tune that filled up her soul, even when her belly was empty.

“I’m going to miss your dreams and schemes,” said Neville. He stood leaning against the garden shed door. 

Hermione smiled as she saw all the small faces grinning at her, from within the extended room. He must have Apparated inside when she wasn’t listening.

“And just how can you tell I’m dreaming? Or scheming for that matter?”

“It keeps you sweet and innocent. And, it keeps you strong enough to hide us all.” Neville seated himself beside her after closing the door behind him. Hermione sensed this conversation had taken a turn and she pulled her back up straight. 

Neville did not continue speaking, and after many years on the road together, Hermione had learned that listening always gave more information than talking out of turn. Finally, the young man sighed and rubbed his leg, which never did heal quite right after that final battle. Neville watched, as the sun twinkled goodbye and the moon emerged, before drumming up enough courage to speak.

“This location’s compromised. My ministry contact didn’t meet me today, and I think it’s time to make our escape.”

“Neville, you can’t possibly know that for sure. Maybe she got held up in prayer or, or-”

“Hermione,” Neville said in warning, effectively stopping her protests. “I think I know my own grandmother. If she could’ve come, she would have. We have to push our plans up a few months. I know it isn’t what we discussed, but we’re running out of time.”

Wrapping her arms around her middle, Hermione said, “That’s very hasty. Your contact doesn’t show, and you’re ready to abandon our base? If we rush, we may not pull it off; then, all our hard work is gone, and the Ministry gets the elves anyway.”

Neville was never a mean-spirited person but had grown considerably more sarcastic as the years dragged on. 

“Sure, we can just wait around here for them, and maybe they won’t show. Maybe they’ll even knock if they do decide to drop in.”

Hermione closed her eyes as she willed her temper down. Neville was right, and she was being purposefully naive. She didn’t know she was crying until his rough fingers brushed her tears away. 

“I’m sorry, ‘Mione. I’m just mad as hell with nothing to do. My grandmother’s most likely been killed, and I’m asking my oldest friend to pursue a suicide mission. Honestly, if Harry were here, he’d kill me himself for even suggesting putting you in danger.”

Clasping the hand that he’d cupped around her cheek, Hermione nodded. 

“He’s not here, and we’ve got a job to do. You’re right. We’ll make our move tomorrow.”

Neville’s face turned to the side, and Hermione knew there was more. She and Neville had been watching each other’s backs since the Final Battle when the Wizarding World collapsed into chaos until the order was eventually restored by a rogue group of charlatans. Neville had been wary of the new government, from the moment it began, and had convinced Hermione to continue the fight by his side, as they tried to dismantle “The Ministry” one mission at a time.

For the past three years, they’d been kidnapping house elves and had managed to steal hundreds, offering them protection. Hermione had realized that in a society that capped the magical output of its citizens, the Ministry would need extra hands to pick up the slack. That was where the elves came in, and that was when the Elvish Rescue Project started; if Hermione and Neville could bend the knee of even a small part of the Ministry’s power, it would be worth it.

The elves had been so near death that they came rather easily. Each subsequent elf was in worse shape than the one before, and the little beings took a surprisingly long time to heal. The oldest rescue had only recently recovered his full range of motion. That was the trick with house elves; if they were attached to a master or a sufficiently magical homestead, they were able to pull the lingering magic from their home’s bricks and mortar to heal, but in this new republic, where most elves were public slaves with no homes to draw strength from, most died from depleted magical cores.

Neville cleared his throat multiple times in rapid succession and his voice was thick with something when he finally did speak. “Hermione, if things fall apart tomorrow, I need you to do what you promised. I can protect myself, and I’ll be very cross if you see a chance to save yourself and you don’t.” 

His eyes were wet, and Hermione knew he hated bringing it up, as if it was admitting defeat. But, they were honest with each other, and they had to face the reality that their plans may not go smoothly. They had to face reality even if it hurt, even if it somehow tainted the memory of their friends, heroes who had died before them.

Hermione pulled Neville in close, listening to each other’s steady breathing, as the liberated house elves coughed and moaned elsewhere within the secret garden shed. Neville did not speak, as if scandalized by his own words; he knew what Hermione’s designation was, what he was asking her to become, but it was better than dying, in his opinion. Hermione whispered that she would, but only if she had to.

Not able to stand the fear and anxiety anymore, Hermione tried to make herself useful. 

“The house magic will hold for the next few hours. If we’re going to make a run for it, I’ll start packing.”

“I’m counting on you, Hermione.” It was a warning. A promise.

“And, _I’m_ counting on you to not do something stupid like sacrificing yourself.” She shot back.

He frowned up at her as he reached in his pocket. 

“I’ve been saving this. My gran said this is the best brothel; they’ll treat you better than the rest.”

Before she could object, he’d handed her a hammered metal cuff. Chiseled flowers of all varieties danced in intricate circles on the inner and outer surfaces. On closer inspection, there were delicately carved circles on the cuff with upwards of at least one hundred flowers. Hermione stared at the thing, as though it was a Horcrux waiting to drain her soul. Neville noticed.

  
  


“You’ll wear it if the mission goes sideways.” 

* * *

Today was a very bad day for Hermione Granger. It was not only her first time back at King’s Cross Station, in several years, but it was also the day her luck ran out. Without a person on the inside, they had to relocate, and now there was a mad scramble to get the elves moved to a new location and to keep Neville and herself somehow safe in the process. It had not gone according to plan. 

Neville had used much of his strength to Apparate Hermione and the transfigured elves to the outskirts of London. With his subpar wand, he’d been forced to throw more power into his casting to ensure a successful spell. Hermione mused that a lesser wizard couldn’t have done it, but Neville had always been more powerful than he’d ever given himself credit for and while it hurt to admit, without Harry’s shadow blocking the way, Neville had become quite the fierce lion. But Hermione knew everything and everyone grew at their own pace, and only when there was enough sunlight on them to grow. Neville would need hours, if not days, to recuperate, and the world was burning, while the Ministry was closing in on them. 

The Ministry’s sudden attention was the strange part. For several years, the Ministry had clocked Neville and herself here and there, even putting them in prison for a time, but that was mostly for show. Once they’d properly humiliated the pair, they’d let them both go free without a word or even an explanation. The Ministry seemed to enjoy pulling their tails now and then just to hear her and Neville scream before releasing them like a bored if slightly vindictive cat. At first, even the elf-napping didn’t seem to phase the government, until it suddenly did. Neville couldn’t make any sense of their behavior, while Hermione suspected it was a long game that she wasn’t qualified to deal into. But that had all changed about a year ago. 

The Ministry, although different from the one from years before that constituted the Wizarding British Government, still seemed to deal in influence similarly. Much like with Harry before, it had become clear that they needed one more set piece to consider themselves fully realized. The ruling elite needed Hermione Granger inside the fold, and they’d do anything to have her. Hermione had surmised this when she’d been crowned Undesirable Number One, a phrase that had fallen out of favor in the five or so years after Harry’s death. 

It was a quick perusal of some dystopian Muggle literature that gave her the answer: for all their work to control the Wizarding population, the Ministry still needed a recognizable, almost celebrity-like presence to give them credibility. A member of the old guard, the old republic to truly get the citizens on board. And the easiest way to do that was to have Hermione and Neville under their paws to play with as they liked. 

Neville had wondered when Hermione had come charging at him with her theory, why the Ministry hadn’t simply asked them to join in the new government rather than making them outlaws? Hermione hadn’t bothered to laugh and fell into a languid lecture that essentially boiled down to one plausible reason: if captured and shown mercy by the Philosopher’s Sacramens and his Mage Bishops, the country’s citizens would believe their government just and forgiving. By forcing Hermione and Neville to be indoctrinated into the new belief system and showing the world that the pair not only repented their sins against the government but now agreed that the Ministry was right, there would be no reason to doubt its validity. It truly was pedantic, if not slightly well played. 

Hermione was apoplectic. The elves were her friends, her children, her charges, and she had to get them to safety. Keeping them out of the Ministry's clutches kept the Ministry weak and impotent. Without them, they had to put much more magical output into their own spells and their own households. The elves needed to stay disconnected from any political faction. Even the French wanted the elves. They, too, were desperate to have Neville and Hermione on their side, but Hermione had learned to stay away from well-meaning ideologies. It was Neville, herself, and their elves against the world, and damn anyone else.

She’d changed since the final battle. Her courage and morals had withered out just like Harry and Ron, the two halves of her soul had been eviscerated. The loyalty that lingered in a Gryffindor only applied to Hermione and her loved ones now. She didn’t have time to worry about anyone else, and she had a chip on her shoulder a mile wide. That was fine with her. 

Neville had thought to disguise the elves as coins, jangling inside a cloth coin purse that she held close to her hip. She, too, would be disguised, hoping to not seem out of place walking to the muggle world. She’d planned the whole scheme perfectly. In the end, it was all for naught.

They’d sat outside the shed, long after the elves had gone to sleep, in order to keep rehearsing their parts. They only had one wand between them, and while it was better than most wands made today, it still wasn’t the most reliable. The trouble was that it only answered to Neville and ignored Hermione completely. Neville had practiced the transfiguration spell three times and had still not gotten it right when the mysterious Patronus appeared. Neither she nor Neville had seen a Patronus in years, let alone one so strong and detailed. It was an eastern screech owl with sharp talons and piercing eyes. It had caught them in the middle of the night. Neville’s assumption had unfortunately been correct. 

“Granger, the Ministry has been tipped off to your whereabouts. Proceed with extreme caution.”

Hermione did not know what to make of the mysterious message. The sender sounded like a woman, but it wasn’t a voice Hermione could place. That the person also had enough magical output saved up, that they were able to send that message to her, was another oddity. Very few people could do such a thing. Furthermore, how did the person know about Hermione, much less care if she were captured? Even if the person was a ministry drone trying to confuse her, they still knew too much. She looked over at Neville, who looked as concerned as she felt.

“Neville, what should we do?”

Thinking on his feet was his specialty of late, “Continue with the plan. Even if it was a ministry spy, we have to get those elves out of sight. Remember our goal.”

“Agitate the Ministry’s power base; I know.”

“Then you know that it’s our only option.”

“Yes,” she agreed before falling into a restless sleep. 

The next morning was a slow and sluggish one. The elves took hours getting themselves sorted and ready, despite having had more than enough time to do so. Hermione’s patience nearly ran out, but one silly grin from Neville and her heels cooled. The two of them were so in tune that one wrong look from the other could leave them in a tailspin, but one smile had the power to leave them feeling weightless. It was a strange side effect of living and working on a singular goal together, without any outside interference. It was something beautiful and treasured and something she didn’t expect to have twice in her life; she’d been on the run with Harry years ago but had been on the run with Neville for far longer. But, like their twin origin tales, so too did both Harry and Neville burrow themselves deep in her heart, only to stay there indefinitely like a tattoo. Perhaps, the more apt comparison, considering Hermione’s luck, would be a bird, forever trapped in her cage, fluttering and flittering with pale, thin wings...going nowhere. 

Eventually, the small group was on their way. They slowly journeyed forward to the platform. Hermione never thought, in her wildest dreams, that one day she’d be attempting to leave Platform Nine and Three Quarters, rather than running to it. She hadn’t ventured into the Muggle world in three years, and she’d never felt the ache for its normality in such inviolable waves.

It was forbidden to go into the Muggle world, under the current Ministry’s rule. They’d decided that all magical beings were valued, but no one else could join their preselected club. That Grindelwald was actually correct, well mostly. They’d decided that Muggles were better off being left completely alone. They added nothing to the magical world and thus, needed to be excommunicated from the Wizarding world. Any Muggle-born child the Ministry became aware of was vanished in the middle of the night, to be raised by Ministry Wives. It was for the best, after all. 

All exits to the Muggle world had been closed, Floo access had been strictly curtailed, and Portkeys were tightly regulated. Any feasible access to another country had either been closed or was so closely watched as to make it infeasible. It was the Ministry and the Ministry only, for all magical Brits, and if they didn’t like it, well, that was just too bad. As far as Hermione could tell, the only real rebellion was hers and Neville’s alone; so, clearly, it wasn’t too much of a problem, or everyone was too beaten down with their magic capped to complain a whole hell of a lot.

Hermione, dressed as a Ministry Nun, walked slowly and purposefully through the crowd. They’d chosen the perfect day to run their play. It was the final day of school for Hogwarts students, before the winter holidays, and the train had just pulled into the station. There was a sharp pang in Hermione’s heart that she staunchly ignored. These students were so different from her and her classmates, even as they succumbed to the Ministry’s efforts, becoming the soldiers they were destined to be. Despite everything that had occurred, Hermione and her friends had had more joy and more individuality than the sad, lifeless students, who now marched off the Hogwarts Express. 

The students formed orderly lines, as they exited the train cars that matched their school year. The Seventh year students stepped off first and calmly walked to the ministry designation point; however they didn’t go into their respective communities until graduation, so Hermione could only imagine they were having some sort of trial run. They’d been sorted already and therefore knew where to go. They filled into three distinct groups: Ministry nuns and monks, Ministry husbands and wives, and the least likely group: brothel boys and girls. It didn't have to be said that Ministry Nuns and Monks were the most elite and most lucky group of all. Husbands and Wives had their own place and their own power and were generally given distinct orders that were easy to follow; so, even that designation wasn’t terrible. It was the last and most cursed designation that no one wanted. Whilst the older students were utterly blank, Hermione could still see the fear reflecting like shields in their eyes. No one wanted to be one of _them_. 

The younger years quietly headed to their parents or Ministry-appointed guardians, before being popped away without a lingering goodbye or look back at their school comrades. It was a bleak picture even for a hardened warrior like Hermione, who’d long since given up believing in anything good. It made that place in her, that missed her friends, feel hollow and dead, like a tree trunk that people refused to cut down even if it practically begged for it. No one and nothing wanted to live like a dead thing; it was crueler than death in many ways.

The ministry outfit she’d procured from an off market salesman was not entirely in fashion, with its too long sleeves and its not quite black color, but Hermione wore her habit with pride and haughtiness; she fervently hoped that’d be enough to get by. While not many people crossed into the Muggle world, enough Ministry Nuns and Monks were strolling through that she knew she’d be fine.

"Just a little more," she thought.

She was passing the school trunks that had been haplessly dumped at the final train car, with slaves picking through them to find the ones belonging to their owners. In place of elves, naughty children and convicts made up that no name class that wasn’t even worth being mentioned. 

Hermione had just stepped past the last trunk when a hex was thrown in her direction. She handed the bag to a disguised Neville and whispered for him to continue walking calmly. She did not answer the hex with one in return but merely continued to walk as she racked her brain for smaller, less noticeable, curses that she could discreetly cast let alone wandlessly. 

She’d just decided on an _Arresto Momentum_ when a _Stupefy_ was thrown in their direction. Quick as lightning, she threw up a shield and pushed Neville into the crowd of startled Monks, whispering for him to just get through the platform.

In hopes of distracting the crowd, Hermione pushed two more bowl-cutted monks causing them to trip into some nearby slaves, as she ran towards the separating line. She felt herself being pulled through the barrier when she heard a child scream, and despite her best efforts, she turned to watch as the child was shoved to the ground by a Godric’s Guard, one of the Ministry’s attack dogs. 

That was when the announcement came, “Citizens, it has been brought to our attention that highly dangerous criminals, Undesirable Number One and Two, are on this very platform. We ask for your assistance in capturing these heretics, and as an added incentive, we will be dropping magical stipends for the next 5 minutes. The one to catch them will be given unlimited units!“

At this, all measures of order collapsed. Everyone handled the news in one of three ways, Disapparating immediately to flee the danger, running for cover, or whipping out their wands to begin the hunt. 

“Give yourself up! You promised!” Neville was apparently closer than she’d thought, as she heard him scream from the other side of the wall. “The cuff! You have to use the cuff."

She breathed, frantic. There were Godric’s Guard members all around. She was trapped. The game was up. She pulled out the gleaming cuff before slapping it on her wrist. “For heaven’s sake, Neville, run! “ She prayed that he did.

And then, everything went black. Her last thought was to hope that the impact with the ground would spare her skull and wouldn't it be trampled when it made impact with the ground. 

  
  
  



	2. Limbo- Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione finds herself in an unfamiliar place.

Hermione came to in a dusty room that smelled strongly of moth balls.  She wasn’t sure how she’d found herself in an unfamiliar room that was completely quiet. Hermione was no longer dressed as a Nun but instead in a dark walking cloak and a simple linen dress, inexplicably missing the Nun sandals she'd worn. Her feet did not appear to have any cuts or bruises and her body did not feel splinched and none of her muscles were strained, from what she could see and feel. 

The room was dark with only a keyhole of sunlight filtering through the wooden slats that covered all the windows. She had awoken sprawled out on a strangely comfortable straw mattress. Someone had to have placed a strong cushioning charm on the mattress; there were no signs or smells indicating that another person had recently been with her, so she knew the spell had been powerful.

A shiver ran through her as she slowly pulled up her skirt. There was no blood or any sign of foul play on her intimate areas and no scratches or thumbprints dotting her thighs. After several dicey situations, Hermione wasn’t so innocent as to not know that such things could be done to her without her knowledge. While not completely sure she hadn’t been harmed, goosebumps tickled her skin and her heart thudded sharply in her chest.

After nearly six years on the run, Hermione knew how to scout out a location, notice small clues and discern how recently another person or animal had been in the location she was observing. From what she could gather, someone had placed her here rather than Hermione using accidental magic and pulling herself to this unfamiliar location. There were no tracks on the dust-covered floor, but the film of grime covering the small side table had been disturbed, suggesting that someone had braced themselves against it while lowering Hermione onto the bed.

There was no indication of how long she'd been unconscious, what happened on the train platform, where Neville was, or who’d brought her here, and there was no clear sign as to whether or not the person who’d brought her here would return. Discomfited and feeling as though she were being watched, Hermione decided it was better for her to flee than wait around to find out. 

Getting out was the easy part, seeing that the door was left unlocked. From the outside, Hermione could see that she had been placed in a tool shed built upon a vacated lot that appeared to be on the outskirts of London. Various tools, shovels, buckets, and other items were strewn about the yard as if a tornado had taken all the equipment and scattered it haphazardly about the land.

The sun was low in the sky, but it was clearly early morning; though, the air felt sticky, for the hour, and smelled of rain. Hermione felt violated; she had no way of knowing for sure what had happened to her body and she was wary of coming upon other people with ill intentions. After all, she was limited in the amount of magic she had available to protect herself. Her body felt strong, though, and the cuff on her arm was a stark reminder that she had to get to the Brothel District, as soon as her feet could carry her. 

* * *

The thick wool cloak wrapped about her head and shoulders partially obscured her features, and the sheet of rain did the rest. Hermione had to keep her wits about her in the newly reopened Diagon Alley, where the doors remained shut and the blinds wide open. She walked calmly through the slippery stone streets, as though she belonged there. Her unhurried mannerisms alerted those around her to stay away- a beacon screaming, “This a woman of means and circumstance. This a woman who will not reward your interference.” 

As it were, there were only a smattering of tightly bundled pedestrians scuttling like rats into warm, dry hovels. She did not have to try quite so hard to be inconspicuous, but five long years had taught her that things could always go south. 

Only the Godric’s Guard, the Ministry's police force made of specialized Monks, cared who was coming and going; and they were notoriously lazy, now that the wand restrictions amendment had passed. However, Hermione could not be at ease knowing that she had no glamour, no wand, and no way to hide herself should anyone look closer. Yes, she had her designation cuff to protect her from being rounded up, but that wouldn’t stop someone, even a guard member, from roughing her up or killing her if they saw fit. Her years on the run had taught Hermione that the world at large had a tendency of following routine patterns, and wizards were not often keen to show mercy, even if the opportunity was given to them. 

Her bare feet were tender, numb, and nearly frostbitten from trudging through cold, muddy puddles for hours, and she was lucky that her cloak dragged about the ground like a wet blanket, as it proved just aggravating enough to keep her awake and moving forward. Now, it seemed that her arduous journey was coming to a close because if her directions were correct, she’d only have to walk another two blocks before reaching the “Sugarhouse" run by  _ the _ Madame herself.

The rain clouds above sagged with excess water, and the lightning just over the rooftops did the devil’s dance. The rain shower had grown gleefully into a pounding storm, and the delicate signage above each shop became more blurry and faint the further Hermione walked. Her tired mind calculated that she must have passed her destination. She turned too sharply on her heel causing her to swing her arms wildly to try and catch her balance, before landing on her buttocks and soaking her heavy cloak. She heard the alarmed cry of a man behind her and realized that he’d been caught in her accident.

She attempted to scramble up just as she realized that her heavy cloak was pulling her back down. She heard the sound of a grunt against the rain and saw the figure she presumably knocked down rise to his feet. The dark sky and the thick rain made it impossible for her to see the person clearly, and before she could object, a strong grip hauled her upwards. Hermione pulled her face upward to thank the stranger but closed her eyes quickly to avoid a sharp light on her face. The wand light was blinding; so, she could not hope to see the person holding it up to her face. She turned her head and put a hand over her eyes. 

“Designation Cuff, please...ah one of the Madame’s girls. I wasn’t notified that one of you would be outside today.”

Hermione responded with an indignant sniff, playing the part she supposed was appropriate," Completing an errand for my mistress. I am returning to the Sugarhouse.” The fire in her eyes extinguished as the guardsman let go of her person. She felt rather than heard the man step out of her personal space. “I’ve finished my shift. I’m heading that way now. I’ll join you.”

Hermione grinned triumphantly, knowing this would get her to her destination. “I’d be happy to be your travel companion. Please lead the way.”

* * *

Luckily, by the time she arrived in her new community, the rain had stopped so she could fully assess her surroundings. The Brothel district was unlike anything Hermione had ever seen before, if only because it was not what one would expect from such a concentrated service area. The district was more like a carnival funhouse with a hodge-pogde of various structures slapped all in the same small town. Some of the businesses, called houses, were short and stubby and painted red all over. A few were tall and skinny with dirty window dressings and half-naked women spilling out of the entrances lined with inebriated men. Still, others were made of gray stone and looked equally cold and haunted, but one singular place outshone them all in it’s spectacular brilliance. It was the only house atop the only hill in the otherwise flat landscape, making Hermione wonder if the hill was a natural feature of the topography or if it had been erected for special effect. She knew what her gut told her.

The house was a pure white mansion made of smooth stone. It was not imposing or gothic like older mansions from days gone by nor so modern as to be too trendy. It was almost unassuming in its quiet beauty, but it was clear that this establishment had the monetary and magical reserves to charm the entire exterior as though it were perpetual spring rather than winter. 

The grounds were decorated with swaying daffodils, flowering trees, and every white rose known to man. It was a home embedded carefully inside a field of flowers. And, no men were stumbling around nor half dressed women lounging on its front steps. There was a lovely young woman, fully dressed, tending to the plants and snipping the ones that had overgrown, and the smell emanating from the location was that of raw sugar and tea. 

Her companion escorted her inside but did not wait to see her properly settled. He strode from the receiving room and up the long stairs to places unknown. Left to her own devices, Hermione immediately made herself known to the receptionist and asked to speak with the Madame.

Apparently, it was bad form to request an audience with the Madame or so the sniffling young boy at the reception desk stated. The Madame was an extremely busy person and could no more inspect every new hire as could the good Minister Fudge could have interviewed every new departmental intern in the former administration. What coarse manners to ask in the first place.

This is how Hermione came to be, still drowning in her sopping wool cloak, in a drafty meeting room, waiting to be examined and found hopefully fit for duty and refuge. With little to entertain, she began ringing the water from her hair before attending to the state of her overcoat. 

As she grasped the cloak between her two hands, a shiny lapel button grabbed her attention. She hadn’t realized before but the cloak had been on inside out with the lapel pin scraping against the straps of her beaded bag where she wouldn’t feel it. She pulled the button between her thumb and forefinger in order to better inspect it. She saw an insignia that she had not noticed before, as she ran from that strange shed she’d woken up in. The pin was in the shape of a heart punctured in the center by a bloody arrow. When she’d noticed the cloak draped about her body, as though she were a play thing, a dress up doll, she hadn’t realized her good fortune. She’d had no reason to be scared when traveling on the roads or in Diagon Alley. The lapel pin would have saved her from all sorts of scrutiny; it was the sign of the Ministry. Only the senior members of the Ministry- Mage Bishops who presided over one of three districts, be it the Nun order, the Husbandry or the Brothel District - who’d been confirmed to give Magic’s holy order wore such insignia; they were second only to the Philosopher’s Sacramens, the secret king of the Ministry. 

It was hard for Hermione to not be overcome with fright. A man, as all Mage Bishops were men, had given her his cloak and had allowed her to wear his insignia. It stood to reason that the same person that had given her the riding cloak had been the one to take her to the abandoned farmhouse outside of town. That person had apparently taken her stolen shoes as payment, which was a whole different mystery that Hermione did not have time to solve. Was it the same person who took her from the platform?

Those lapel pins were almost as valuable as a real life resurrection stone, and no one in their right mind would part it with such a treasure, especially to give it to the Ministry’s Undesirable No. 1? Who had housed her and knocked her unconscious? What was their goal? Moreover, and perhaps most importantly, if that person had saved her and left her with their cloak as protection, when would they want repayment for services rendered? And, oh Merlin, when would they come to collect?

What in the hell had she gotten herself unwittingly involved in?

The slamming of the door alerted Hermione to a new occupant and blessedly derailed her spiraling train of thought from the cliff she’d been careening towards. This was why she needed Neville; he was excellent at taking Hermione’s tangled and complicated web of thoughts and ideas and transfiguring them into something strategic and smart. Without him, Hermione was missing the essential piece that had held her very being together, in moments she was fit to come unglued. What advice would he bestow on her in order to appease this unhappy looking woman? 

Neville would tell her to stand firm, stand strong, to greet her with conviction saying: _ “Hello, my name is Hermione Granger. I’ve come to accept my designation.” _

And, so in his honor, Hermione did. 

The words were spoken to a spiky green haired woman with Quidditch robes practically painted onto her body. The woman’s mouth was tight with disapproval. “You must be the new girl- the Undesirable who finally accepted her fate. We expected you seven days ago.” Hermione stood stock still. She’d lost 6 days? It had taken her all day and most of the night to get here, so that meant she’d been in that farmhouse for hours upon hours. And yet, she’d felt no hunger upon waking or any soreness from extended bed rest. Someone had been caring for her. The fear took her again. Strange things were happening around her with no way to discover the truth. If only she had a wand...

“You’re late. The woman added unnecessarily when Hermione did not immediately respond.

“I did not realize you were expecting me. I was...detained on other matters,” Hermione decided this rude woman wasn’t worth a full telling of the truth. She seemed the type to chew on secrets before spitting them back in your face for the sheer fun of it. 

“Wearing the Madame’s cuff creates a binding work contract. Any dunderhead with two toes knows that. And don’t think you’ll be getting any special treatment. You’ll interview like all the others.”

Hermione had no idea how someone would interview for a position if wearing the Madame’s cuff created a work contract, but she assumed that further inquiry into the matter may have her back out on the rainy streets once again. She nodded emphatically which seemed to please the unsavory woman. 

“One of the Higher Ups vouched for you and said you wouldn’t give us any trouble, but as punishment for your tardiness, you will not be allotted any free time. You will be housed and fed promptly at seven in the morning and again at seven in the evening, and if you’re late, there will be no further opportunities; no exceptions. You will remain in your room until such a time when you have enough earnings to buy holiday time. Now, this is all under the assumption that you pass the interview process. Is that clear?” 

Hermione nodded once, in the affirmative. 

“You will be given a manual to study, and perhaps, if you’re lucky and they are amenable, one of the other girls will take pity on you and show you how it’s done. Don’t expect anyone to go out of their way to help you, either. If you’d been here on time then perhaps you could’ve planned for more help, but you brought this on yourself. Are you able to begin working in a day or so, if you are accepted?”

Feeling like a broken record, for the second time in such a short span of a breath, Hermione replied while fighting not to roll her eyes in exasperation, “Yes.”

“Good. Follow me into the office. You’ll be interviewed shortly. Any questions?” The woman narrowed her eyes, and Hermione blanched. Clearly, questions weren’t welcomed.

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until you have a reason to. Appreciation is a currency that you don’t have enough money to barter in. Stay silent, if you know what’s in your best interest.”

Before Hermione had a moment to be affronted, she was pulled into a small sitting room, with far too many creams and pastel colors thrown about as decoration to be appropriate for adult professionals. Another woman was sitting behind a desk in this new room, as the green haired woman closed the adjoining door, leading to the reception area. Hermione waited with bated breath.

And waited.

And waited.

Oh, and yes, waited some more, feeling the tension in her stiff shoulders. 

She resisted sighing heavily; instead, choosing to stare at the bored woman filing her nails. Hermione wondered when she’d be meeting her employer, to get on with the business of selling her soul. 

“When will I be speaking with the Madame or a supervisor to discuss my employment options?” Hermione asked.

The other girl did not look up from her trivial task of routine beautification, and the thought occurred to Hermione that the girl must be a Muggle-born to use such a device. Though, she did momentarily pause her filing before continuing with a small, selfish smile. Speaking to herself, she said, “She thinks Alba Erica is going to stop running this place full up with magic to come to speak to her scrawny arse. By god, I hate witches.”

Ignoring her slight completely, Hermione replied, “The madame’s name is Alba Erica? I’d heard her identity was a tight lipped secret.”

The girl managed to be even more disdainful when she deigned to look Hermione in the eye. “Alba Erica is her brothel name. If I allow you to be one of us, who you were before won’t matter one stitch and you’ll be given a new name. And, for the record, no damn body can march up demanding to see Alba Erica, especially not a chit like you.”

“So, my interview is with you, Miss-”

Sighing loudly, the girl threw her nail file at her feet and abruptly stood. “You’re getting on my damn nerves, newbie, but Alba Erica would strangle me if I let the Chosen One’s girl go to some inferior house.” 

With reflexes that seemed too fast to be human, she now stood in Hermione’s face. 

“Play the game well and you may end up in Alba Erica’s inner circle. The clients won’t be able to keep their hands off you.” Hermione did not hide her disgust well, and the girl leered at her before once again getting too close to Hermione’s face. "I'd learn to hide your emotions if you want any hope of survival."

Unlike what Hermione would have expected from such a vile person, her interviewer did not have bad breath or the rotten stench of an internal volcano, as her temperament would suggest. No, she smelled sweet and yet earthy like a sprig of-

“Rosemary,” Hermione breathed. The other girl reared back but had a slight upturn to her lips. Hermione had done well.

“Okay, chitty girl. I guess you'll have to make do. Come along.”

Hermione did not smile, but the tingle of victory nipped at her winter-cold skin. Even in this new, strange house, she could still be a bright little-

“I said come on!”

Shaking her head, Hermione answered back. “Coming.”


	3. Limbo-Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione reunites with an old friend.

Chapter Two

The Sugarhouse, The Madame’s Tea Room (i.e. brothel), was decorated tastefully with light colored wood on the ground and expensive wallpaper clinging to every vertical wall. It was no wonder, the Sugarhouse was the best serviced business in the brothel district. Hermione had seen snatches of news clippings (when they had still been legal to print) that speculated that the Sugarhouse was so far above the other brothels that the Mage Bishops had considered making the tea room its own district. Hermione imagined that it was that article that had gotten the free newspaper shut down. Everyone knew that the Mage Bishops didn’t appreciate any gossip about them or their movements, and Hermione wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the Sugarhouse hadn’t been given its own district to spite the journalists. 

If she were honest, Hermione could admit that she wasn’t entirely sure what went on at the Sugarhouse. Most brothels and service houses were known for something, even if it was only that house’s ill repute, but not the Sugarhouse. The comings and goings and services rendered here were under lock and spell, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. This service house catered to the upper echelon, to the Philosopher's Sacarmens and the Mage Bishops, and whatever went on inside the establishment was of the strictest confidence. 

Again, if Hermione were honest with herself, she’d admit that she was lucky that Neville’s Gran had procured for her one of the Madame’s cuffs, even if it put them further on the Ministry’s radar. She could have been working for Dentley’s which everyone knew was a slaughterhouse, catering to the blood lusting and depraved, who enjoyed slicing up girls and putting them back together again but not always in the most caring of ways. Or even the Cakehouse, where the Master whipped the girls and forced them to bear any customer’s child, so that he could extort the father into paying for the child, to keep the Master from alerting the Mage Bishops about the indiscretion. It truly was a blessing, not that Hermione could go on her knees in prayer to give thanks. She wasn’t _that_ appreciative. 

  
  


She knew her place at the Sugarhouse depended heavily on her first few performances. The one grace, in this new life, was the soft quiet solitude of her room. Hermione was no stranger to silence, but silence had almost always come with critical stipulations, when she’d been battle worn, during the deadly quiet after a killing, or that small moment that came between crucios. This silence was almost shy as if edging around the perimeter, afraid to disturb anyone. She knew her sleep would be restless tonight.

Her room was not grandiose by any means, but it was far more richly appointed than she’d been expecting. There was a small bed, already dressed with linens and quilts. The room had a writing desk and chair in the far corner, along with a small wooden chest, intended for storing personal items and clothes; a quick peek inside the chest let her know that there were already a few cotton dresses and well made, durable flats inside. She pulled out a pair and was amazed that they resized to fit her feet perfectly. It had been a long time since she’d bothered with such frivolous comforts. Behind a door to her left, there was also a small water closet complete with a standing shower. Hermione had never had a bathroom to herself before and found it incredibly strange that current events were what led her to have such a space. She then wondered if she was given this luxury to account for the fact that she wouldn’t be leaving her room enough to warrant a shared bathroom.

The most bizarre aspect of the room was the material it had been constructed from. The walls were made of shiny metal like that of the inside of a tunnel, and it puzzled her. The substance was undoubtedly expensive, and quite frankly, it seemed rather excessive. Hermione could not, for the life of herself, imagine why metal walls were used when building and what the metal walls could possibly be for. 

A whisper of hollow, metal clanking disturbed the calm mood in her frenzied study session. She looked to the left of her steel suite and found a small opening between the metallic sheets that made up her walls. The slit was too small for anything of substance to pass through, and the whispered words had to shrink and shimmy their way to fit through.

A soft voice said, "New neighbor?"

Not feeling particularly charitable, Hermione managed a strained response, "That’s right."

"It's so lovely to meet you. What brings you home?"

Wrinkling her nose, Hermione replied, “I'd hardly quantify this as a home. It’s just another prison.”

“Closest thing.” The soft voice said in the darkness.

Hoping a noncommittal reply would end the conversation, Hermione barely managed a “Hmm. I suppose.”

“So, what sort of illusion will you make? The more impressive your creation is, the more interest you’ll garner, and the more interest you get, the more customers you’ll attain. And, more customers equals more new friends. And, you know what more friends equals.”

“I am actually in the middle of planning if you don't mind,” Hermione said, cutting off the other hidden girl. With only house elves and a quiet Neville for company, for the better part of the last three years, Hermione’s ability to make small talk had dwindled down to nothing. She knew, objectively, that she ought to make a connection with this person, whoever she was. She’d only have so many learning gaps allowed in this initial adjustment period. When it came to this new government, their expectations, the expectations of a brothel employee, and all others that came with those things, Hermione figured that simply speaking out of turn could easily result in her committing some grand faux pas, for which she would, of course, be reprimanded. Did brothel employees get citations? Would she become a slave if her performance was not well received? How did any of this actually work?

Hermione did know that making an ally of this girl would be prudent, and yet, she was not ready for a new friend. She’d only ever been capable of managing and maintaining a few social connections at a time, before the inevitable annoyance set in, and she wasn’t quite ready to replace Neville and the elves' place of importance in her life. They were out there, somewhere, and that they were well. She hoped if Neville had plans to come for her, that he didn’t go off half cocked and get himself killed. He was her brother, her family, and her heart. Her deeply-tattered spirit couldn’t take the thought of what his loss would do to her. And so, Hermione stayed quiet, did not engage, and slipped further into her thoughts.

There was a long winding moment of blessed peace and then, “Very important to plan… say, when you earn your first time off, we could go have some scones and cream? Lovely shop up the road and they don’t mind catering to us, brothel girls. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, we’ll be able to hear the news on the wireless, for a while. Mr. Fingerbutress tries to pass it off secretly, so no one knows he’s doing it. Such a kind soul, that man.”

“This is all very intriguing, but if you wouldn't mind...” Hermione tried hinting, in vain, to the other girl that she was tiring of their one sided conversation.

“I certainly don't. Haven't had a proper chat in an age. Perhaps-”

“I really must get back to my-”

“Oh of course, well, my favorite trick to bring in men is to create a honey-backed willer womp hunt. It goes over so well, and nothing is truly hurt!”

Her eyes closed, as the voice from long memories and short nights came back into the forefront of her mind. She was a right idiot. Who else could it have been but...“Luna?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“My god, Luna.” Tears sprang from her eyes unbidden, “It's Hermione! I had no idea you were still alive. My god.”

A twinkling laugh, “I knew it was you.”

“Why didn't you say anything? I thought you were an oblivious loon.”

“Haven't you always?”

“Oh, Luna...I- that’s not-”

“I didn't say that in the offense. I am a bit loony. And, I've never had a problem with that.”

Unsure of how to respond, Hermione settled on, “Well, I’m glad you’re still the same Luna you’ve always been.”

“How lovely to be exactly who you are. I've found it rather freeing.”

“I'm not sure that I can say the same for myself. This life doesn't allow too much of that. No matter, how are you?”

Being the curious Ravenclaw, Luna was not so easily put off and ignored Hermione’s question to ask one of her own. It was a trait Hermione could deeply respect, now that she knew who it was coming from, “Well, why ever not?”

“I guess I don't really know.”

For once, Luna only replied, “Hmm.”

Hermione was too excited and nervous now to let the silence rest, “Luna, please. How are you? What’s happened?” Luna’s response was as soothing as it was lengthy, and Hermione put her hand to the wall; the space felt warm. Hermione knew Luna’s hand was directly across from hers over that deep, metal divide. After their much needed chat, Hermione was surprised to find that sleep took her softly that night. Something that had not happened since those long ago, snowy Christmas nights snuggled under her father’s firm arms.


	4. Limbo-Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna and Hermione renew their friendship.

Hermione heard Luna trill out a good morning, and knew it was nearly approaching the time of the official start to her new life. A small house elf popped into her room, dropping a breakfast tray on her small desk, and disappeared before Hermione had the opportunity to give her a once over. She felt a pang in her chest for the elves that she may never see again, and she hoped they were taking good care of her dear Neville. 

She approached her tray, like a blood thirsty wolf stalking its oblivious prey, afraid that the nutrient-rich meal might scamper off like a skittish bunny. She slid into her chair and scooped up a heaping bite of porridge with her spoon, hastily shoving the contents down her mouth without tasting. After allowing herself a few more bites, Hermione slowed her attack, upon seeing that the food would not disappear and forced her teeth to chew and tear at the beans and toast until they were turned mush in her mouth. She and Neville had lived on a simple fare, but those meager meals were never quite filling or satisfying enough, and they were certainly never truly warm enough. 

Hermione had been lucky that she’d arrived rather late in the day and ushered to her room, without the benefit of being given a proper tour. She hadn’t been ready to face the other women or her future customers. There must have been a silencing spell on the hallways because no foot traffic awoke her during the night. She was a light sleeper now; even the brush of a foot on dry leaves alerted her in the silence of the night. It had taken Neville a devil of a time to get used to her ticks. There was no question that uninterrupted sleep was a luxury, and she felt almost dizzy with the amount of energy bubbling within her body and fueling her formerly sleep-deprived mind. 

Luna had mentioned last night that the girls rarely had early morning guests; although, everyone was expected to be awake at a reasonable hour and preparing to perform for their numerous afternoon guests. The Sugarhouse was unlike the other brothel houses, in that much of the work expected truly was in a mannerly and genial nature. Many of their clients did actually come for afternoon tea with colleagues and the like, being served with tea sandwiches and delicate arrangements. To hear it described, the scene was almost like the revival of a simpler time in British history, for those who could afford such play-acting, where men dressed in formal attire for meals and women changed from day to evening wear regularly. 

As such, the Madame’s girls were experts in genteel behavior, manner, and dress. Each girl was polished and often studied or trained to improve their overall appearance and speech. Furthermore, they also often found entertainment in refined pursuits from the likes of needlework, penmanship, linguistic studies, decor designing, gardening (with large brim hats to keep their skin clear and as pale as their natural skin color would allow), musical practice, and of course, extensive, even excessive, reading. It seemed silly to have a finishing school for prostitutes, but apparently, attention to the preparation of the girls’ social reception, of sorts, allowed the Madame a certain power. Her girls were not coarse or slovenly; moreover, they were able to serve as a release for the Ministry’s upper echelon, a task bestowed on very few. 

The only reason the Brothel district existed was to provide a means of blowing off steam. The district the establishment fell in was the smallest district, with the lowest population of all three but was arguably the most powerful, and that was by the good Madame’s cunning skill alone. The entire country, save for the Brothel District, doubled down on faux religion and the ridiculous edicts they chose to perpetrate upon their populace. No bedding before marriage, no independent or single women, no raucous parties, no extensive magical use, and no excitement whatsoever. Such a life was like swimming in a sea of dark gray with no color to distinguish up from down. But, the Brothel district was the Ministry’s playground, and they most assuredly did play. Sex, alcohol, potions, murder, and all delicious pestilence dwelled in the hotbed of sin that was the Brothels, and out of the limelight, the men of the Ministry reveled in the depravity like dung-covered pigs. 

But, even in the pits, a man could sometimes find himself wishing for the finer, more decadent slices of immorality. These were devilish safe havens where a man could dream and play act, a place where a man could forget and forget well. And, that was the Madame’s true specialty; cultivating a delicacy in a field full of substandard and often rotting apples; they flocked to it like flies, the lot of them. 

Hermione felt her disgust grow, etching itself a place of permanence in her new life, as the bile rose up in her throat. She closed her lips and shook it away. This was a time to be strong; after all, somewhere out there, Neville was waiting. 

There was a knock at her door, and it startled Hermione in its briskness. For a brief moment, she feared that it was someone coming to hurt her, but she pushed such silliness aside. On the other side was a girl with white blonde hair and the stormiest gray eyes she’d ever seen. At first, she mistook her for Luna, as she had not seen her friend in many years. But, it merely took a moment’s observance, and she knew this was a stranger. The girl’s hair was not bone straight like Luna’s, but instead, the tresses fell down her shoulders before curling slightly at the ends. Hermione guessed that, if the girl’s hair had been cut short, no one would even know it had a small curl. The girl was beautiful, not that Luna wasn’t. But, Luna’s loveliness stemmed from her soft, round eyes and delicate features. Whereas, this girl’s face was all sharp lines and jutting cheekbones; she reminded Hermione of those hauntingly gorgeous fashion models stalking up and down Muggle runways like predators. 

Even putting aside her physical features, this girl had an aura about her that even Hermione, the un-prescient skeptic, could not avoid. She vibrated with something that felt somewhat familiar and yet remarkably shocking to her own senses. It was as though Hermione was standing in a room she’d never seen before, but somehow, she had an innate sense of where all the trap doors were. It was uncanny, and Hermione took a step back to regain her bearings. It was only with the additional space between them that Hermione could breathe again and notice that the woman held a covered basket that moved of its own accord.

“Good Morning. I am Hydra, the resident healer. I’ve come to administer your initial examination. The process will be somewhat longer than my typical health examinations, but as you are new to us and without any recent exams to reference in your medical records, I must be thorough.”

“You’re a healer?” Even to her own ears, Hermione knew she sounded idiotic, but of all the professions she imagined this person would have, none of her guesses had leaned towards the healthcare field. She looked more like someone who’d wrangle feral kneazles with only her strong stare.

The woman merely tilted her head and raised an eyebrow but did not respond to Hermione’s comment. “Am I to be let in, or shall I stand out here and perform the procedure in front of the entire floor?” 

Hermione didn’t find that necessary and ushered the woman inside nervously. Gripping her hands into fists inside her pockets, so that nothing would appear outwardly amiss, she asked politely, “May I inquire as to what sort of examination is this and what will the subsequent results be used for?”

Her visitor had already started unpacking the contents of her basket on Hermione’s desk and gestured for Hermione to sit on the edge of her bed, but Hermione hesitated. The woman sighed saying, “ I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself, before asking you to undress and place this sheet over your womanly parts.”

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione testily questioned the directive "Why?"

“I will be giving you a thorough inspection in order to determine several key pieces of information required for your stay here. Perhaps the most important to you will be your daily price. I will also analyze your natural magical output, your physical health, and your child-bearing ability. Of course, I will take your infamous celebrity status into account. All these factors will come together to give you an initial rate for services rendered and a composite physical fitness rating.”

Shocked into silent disgust, Hermione did not respond. Hydra continued, sounding incredibly bored and monotone. “I wouldn’t worry about the exam too much. You’ll fetch a fair unit even if your insides are made of pudding. You are, after all, the _Hermione Granger._ ”

Hydra’s tone had been a bit weary if not a little blank, but at the mention of Hermione’s name, Hydra sounded a bit different. She said Hermione’s name, like merely pronouncing the words themselves, making the letter sounds come together correctly, would physically wound the healer if given the chance. She spoke the name like a dagger waiting to stab its intended victim. 

Alerts triggering the synapses in her brain to fire, Hermione said in a strangely calm voice, “I’m afraid I have a meeting with the Madame this morning, for a private matter. I couldn’t possibly do this inspection and see her at the same moment. Perhaps, you could come back later?”

Hydra’s face flashed with something, but Hermione didn’t have time to decide what it was before the girl used a wand to pack up her instruments. Hermione hadn’t seen a wand more powerful than Neville’s in a long time; she could surmise that the magical output was still capped but to a much lesser degree. “Very well, I wouldn’t want you to miss such an important appointment either. I’m sure you know that the Madame is an extremely busy person. As a matter of fact, I just saw her head into an interview with the Brothel’s Mage Bishop. Why don’t I take you there?”

Cursing inwardly at the daring look on the other girl’s face, Hermione weighed her options. She could retract her statement and admit some level of deception on her part or she could play along with the girl, who clearly thought she was lying. She decided that playing it honest hadn’t really helped her much and going with her gut had often worked well enough. So, she made what she hoped to be the right decision and continued with the ruse, “I’d very much appreciate that, but the Madame asked me to come alone. And, I should get changed before I see her.”

Smiling like a tiger with large teeth, the healer gave her a signal of agreement before striding to the door. “I will be back soon. The exam cannot be avoided.” Hermione nodded, as the door closed, before collapsing on her bed. Her mind would not cease wondering why the strange girl made her feel so uneasy.

* * *

As luck would have it, Hermione did not have to pretend to see the Madame to get out of her physical examination. A light tapping at her door interrupted Hermione’s fretting. She slowly made her way over to answer it; Hermione feared that it would be Hydra again with proof that she had been lying. Still, she opened the door to find that no one was there. The hallway was clear with soft sunlight streaming in through the open windows on either side of the long, skinny hallway. She looked up and down the corridor, but found no one ducking around corners or softly closing doors. In fact, the only thing Hermione noticed was the sound of light piano playing from another room, but she could not distinguish which one. It was unobtrusive and lovely as a single flower bud flowering on a fence from faraway. However, it was a marked difference from the quiet of her room and she realized her room was silenced, which brought on a host of uneasiness.

Just as Hermione was about to close her door again, she noticed a small black box sitting right beside her door, like an old style mail slot like her parents had had. Upon further observation, she saw that some of the seven room doors had a black mail slot in front of them while others did not. Unsure of what to do, Hermione waited as she saw a door a few paces away open. A tall girl with sleek black hair with curlers wrapped at the ends emerged and bent down to open her mail slot and retrieve several notes and letters. The girl looked up and saw Hermione staring at her and nodded her head genially.

“Good Morning, Newbie. You’ve got mail already?” Hermione must have looked puzzled and the other girl laughed softly and nodded towards the mail slot. “That’s the one thing about this place. They never tell you anything unless you ask. So, that’s your mail slot. There’ll be a tapping at your door when you have new correspondence. Once you retrieve your mail, the mail slot disappears until the next time you get something.”

Hermione said, “Brothel employees get mail?” The other girl walked over to Hermione's mailbox and indicated that Hermione ought to open it and so she did. There was a single letter resting in the box and the tall girl nodded. 

The other girl’s smile almost, but did not quite, meet her dark almond eyes, “Yes, if you’re a favorite or popular, you’ll get all kinds of love letters, gifts, priceless family heirlooms that won’t do a thing for you, extra magical units, marital offers, surrogate offers, payments, tips, and everything in between. And, being the most famous person in the country, I have no doubt that you’ll hear tapping at your door all day and night.”

Her body reacted without Hermione meaning to do and she trembled, “It’s common knowledge that I’m here already?”

“The moment you arrived it was all over the papers and the wireless. But, I wouldn’t worry. You’re safe here. The Sugarhouse is a favorite of the Philosopher’s Sacramens. No one is going to burst in here and take you unless Alba Erica herself wishes it. And if she ever does, there’s not a place in the country you could hide.”

Picking up Hermione’s mail, she inspected it and the girl’s perfume wafted in the air calmly. Then, seeing whom it was from, the girl handed it to its intended owner. The expensive and creamy paper felt laden in Hermione’s hands and pinpricks hit her on all sides. It was addressed to her and it was from the Madame herself. At once, she felt the weight of the day and night begin rolling over her in waves. 

The other girl turned to go and a sense of panic caused Hermione to grab the other girl’s hand. She turned and blinked at Hermione before a true smile filled her dark eyes even if it did not show on her face. Hermione found herself unable to speak and unable to ask what she really needed to, but it must have been obvious to spot.

“You’ll need to be tough in the most insidious ways. You’ll need to wear your femininity and your grace like polished steel or even like a badge of honor. But, you will get through -- you’re smarter than anything and cunning to boot. But be careful, there are several people who won’t like you for the same reasons that I admire you.”

Smiling, for perhaps the first time in days, Hermione asked, “How do you know?”

"Ravenclaw, two years behind you. My name is Veronica. I guess I got lucky that it just happened to also be the name of a flower. Come by anytime.” With a squeeze to Hermione’s shoulder, Veronica disappeared into her own room. Hermione stood in the doorway for a few more moments, listening to the soft piano playing, and wondered what else this day would bring her. 

When the tune faded away, Hermione closed her door and went back into her room. She sat at her writing desk and opened the note. Inside was a standard memo outlining behavioral expectations and the like and also had an appointment time at the bottom letting Hermione know that she would in fact have an interview with the Madame in two days’ time. Further, she would be reporting to Moonflower’s room for training. Hermione couldn’t think of a single person that could be more than Luna. Seeing that it was already half past 9 by the clock on the far wall, Hermione nervously walked next door.

She had not seen her friend in many years. Visions of a battered or hurt Luna flew through her mind even though nothing in the Sugarhouse at all seemed abusive or scary. But, all the same, Hermione was worried to see a friend she’d longed assumed imprisoned or dead. A part of her wondered how many other friends and acquaintances she assumed had met bad ends were actually right under her nose. There had been so much chaos as the two factions fought over who had bragging rights after both the Dark Lord and Harry Potter died together and Hermione had thought many of her friends were gone or lost in the wind, like Neville. Her best friend who she worried she’d never see again.

She need not have worried for as soon as Luna opened the door of her room, it was as if no time had passed at all. Luna had grown more willowy and her strange manner of dress was less flashy or gauche. She looked eccentric, yes, but with expertly crafted refinements that displayed the taller girl’s maturity. Luna or rather, Moon Flower, was confidently self-possessed, polished, and impossibly lovely. She would be a perfectly competent professor, and it made Hermione feel a sense of tranquility to be in the presence of an older, more experienced version of her dear friend.

Luna reached down and pulled Hermione into her and the two women embraced. Luna’s normally flimsy grip was strong as she held Hermione like a child. Hermione felt a wet sensation hitting the top of her braided head and heard a soft sniffing. She realized that perhaps she was not the only one emotional at this impromptu reunion. When Luna pulled back, her face was dry but had splotchy, red cheeks and a resplendent smile. 

And for one shining moment, everything was as okay as it could be.


	5. Limbo-Chapter 4

Training consisted of watching a tea service being performed which Luna demonstrated after saying that was only lesson one in Hermione’s education and that there were plenty more lessons to go. Hermione nodded competently; learning had never been one of her concerns. While clarifying and asking questions as the lesson progressed, a sour feeling slowly rose in her stomach. Luna guided the discussion in such a way as to never bring up what would happen after the tea service and niceties had been performed for guests. 

Hermione was fed up with the way conversation never went where she desperately needed it to go, “Luna, I can’t thank you enough for my first lesson. However, I’ve noticed we haven’t discussed what I would consider the elephant in the room.”

Blinking, Luna said, “Oh, you’d like to know about the sex work?”

Exasperated but trying hard to hide it Hermione nodded. “You’ve heard about the illusions we create.”

“Somewhat. The materials were very vague.”

“I know you haven’t been in our government very long, but you already know how our magical output is capped and many of us are without personal wands. That leaves most people very repressed with no creative or magical outlet. No matter what the Philosopher's Sacramens says, that is not what Old Magic intended. So, we create whatever fantasies our clients desire. Many come here for excess pleasure and not always in a physical sense. That’s why your magical output is important. The more you’re able to fuel your customer’s desires, the more they’ll keep coming back. Being swept up in someone’s magic, having it run through you like a surge is better than any potion; not that they don’t use those, too.”

That explanation gave her pause as she reflected on all that Luna had said. “Sex isn’t guaranteed? Not that we have a choice either way.”

“It isn’t guaranteed. And, it’s rarely expected, but there will be days when you wished that the client would just shag you and have done as opposed to what they actually demand.”

“Which is what?” Hermione prompted softly. Luna’s body was slightly stiff but barely noticeable and Hermione couldn’t decide if that lack of reaction was Luna’s calm personality or extensive training in the business. Those baby blue eyes which had been staring out into space darted to Hermione’s caramel colored ones, locking her into place. Her stare was still dreamy if one remembered that dreams could also be called nightmares.

“All of you. Your magic. Every last drop.”

* * *

Luna’s schedule allowed plenty of time for training novices. According to her, there were several levels within the system and only those at the very top regularly worked closely for Alba Erica. Luna did not know how people were promoted or demoted, which had been Hermione’s first question. A person simply got a note in their mail slot and had their room switched to an upper floor. Luna was not sure how many floors there were in all, as the Sugarhouse employed nearly one hundred girls. 

“How long have you been here, Luna?” Hermione asked in concern. Luna must not have been very good with her clients to still be on the first floor.

“Since the beginning when I was given my designation.” 

Hermione attempted to keep the sad look off her face. She hated pity and she was trying hard not to show any to her friend. Changing the subject quickly, Hermione inquired what the benefit was of being on an upper-level.

“Better lodgings and clothing, more free time, stronger wands, higher nightly rate, more exposure to the upper echelon who may take you for a mistress, or even a wife if they’re desperate enough. And, of course, the ability to have more say in who your clients are.”

Hermione whispered in awe and then immediately felt disgusted with herself. “You can choose?”

Luna stroked Hermione’s cheek with the back of her knuckles, “Yes, as you rise, you get more and more autonomy in that department. Alba Erica’s top girls have complete control over who they do and don’t want to work for. But, most girls don’t make it to the top as I said. They either never make it or are snatched up by a rich man who wants to take them home.”

“ _ Take them home _ . You make them sound like puppies you pick up on the side of the road.” Luna merely looked at her while tilting her head in such a way that Hermione shut her mouth about the subject. 

A few hours later and it was time to observe one of Luna’s sessions. They were still in Luna’s quarters that smelled of daffodils and fresh linens. The room had a large window, a modest bed with plush quilting adorned with stitched animals undulating on the cloth, a decent-sized writing desk, a chest of drawers, a cupboard, and some books. Luna was in her small bathroom changing when Hermione called out a question.

"How does this work? Should I hide?"

"Mr. McLaggen has a standing noon appointment with me every Tuesday. He's accepting of my training. He enjoys having others watch.”

Hermione blanched as she guessed what he’d enjoy others watching and visibly shivered. It was Cormac after all. 

“Oh, oh no. I can't be here for that. I thought it was tea service.”

Luna emerged from the bathroom in a simple, but well made empire waist dress complete with a white ribbon. Her hair was elaborately done with curls piled up and around her head. “Nothing like you're thinking. You'll see. Now, I need a few moments to work. Watch my movements. I know it's been a long time for you without a powerful wand. It can be a bit jarring at first to have that much power surrounding you. Today, you'll watch, but next time, you'll do the wandwork. Ok?”

“Yes, that's fine.” Hermione blew out a shaky breath. Learning and practical application she could do, so long as she didn’t think too much about the subject matter. 

Luna completed some rather basic transfiguration spells, but her results were nicer than they should have been. She'd recreated Buckingham Palace, silent guards and all. "The room is imbued with amplifier spells. Even if my wand is capped quite a bit, with the room's power, we're able to create something quite engaging. The metal walls lock the magic inside the room and amplify it at the same time; can’t afford to lose even a little bit."

"And Cormac likes this scene?"

She shrugged, “Yes, many of the clients dream of the Muggle world."

“You want what you can't have,” Hermione guessed.

“Perhaps, but I believe it's deeper than anything so petty. You'll see.”

At that, a knock sounded at the door. With a wave of her wand, the door was opened and Cormac came in. Luna then put the wand in a tiny ornate box and locked it by pressing her thumb to the latch hook. Hermione made a note to ask her about it later.

"Welcome, Mr. McLaggen. May the Ministry bless power upon you."

"And to you as well, Moonflower.” Cormac inclined his head toward Luna before taking her hand and kissing it.

“I should mention, we have another trainee with us today; if that is amenable to you?”

Cormac looked devilishly handsome in the blood-red robes that were worn by the Godric’s Guard. His wavy blond hair shined in the window light, while his helmet rested under his arm. His wand was holstered at his opposite side, but close enough to be easily drawn. His teeth gleamed as he acknowledged Hermione’s presence. If he was surprised to see her, he made no indication. He inclined his head to her as well, before resting his helmet on the door hook, along with his outer robes.

"Greetings to you, Miss."

A giggle escaped from Luna, as she twirled toward him. He caught her as she spun into his arms. “Mr. McLaggen is a gentleman. I’m sad to say, you shouldn't expect the same from every client.”

Before she could finish speaking, the officer kissed her tenderly on the cheek. He leaned his forehead against the side of hers, and there they remained for a short moment. 

Unable to temper her curiosity, Hermione asked the pair if they were an item. McLaggen looked at her appraisingly before nodding. “I suppose we can trust you. I'm saving up to purchase her from the Brothel District’s Mage Bishop before someone else makes an offer."

"Owning? That's disgusting."

Cormac did continue to smile as if she hadn't spoken. "I can understand your confusion. You haven't ever really lived under this Ministry. Most things aren't nearly as abhorrent as they sound. I'd love to educate you, but I've wasted some time with you, and have been neglecting my Luna.” 

Luna was not particularly put out over the occasion but she looked at her friend for a long time before turning away. Hermione got a fuzzy feeling in her gut and was afraid to hear what Luna would have to say once the session was over and the two friends were alone again.

The room’s illusion held, and Hermione watched as Luna and Cormac began walking up and down the street in front of Buckingham Palace. The two strolled hand in hand, laughing together. Somehow, as they moved from Luna’s door to the illusion scene, the room widened in such a way that made the pair appear very far away from Hermione, as though she were watching two actors up on the movie screen. Soon, people began walking around the couple, and Hermione was brought back to the hustle and bustle of London. There were echoes of chatter, horns honking, feet shuffling on the pavement, even men cursing as they ran into each other as they hurried to unseen locations. Even the chill in the room evaporated instead of a bright sunny day. Hermione had the feeling that if she were to walk into the crowd, she’d be rammed by a pram or accidentally hit with a shopping bag or accosted by tourists inquiring after the bus station. 

It was a memory come alive, and Luna and Cormac languished in it. She saw Cormac yelling and making silly faces in front of a palace guard, with Luna attempting to hop over the fence. They were children again, playful and free. And then, somehow the two managed to get inside the palace doors, and it was quiet there, save for the street noise. There was a pinch on Hermione’s heart, as she sat staring at the never-ending crowd, not seeing the same face walk by twice. Hermione wondered how Luna and the room had managed it. Then, she saw two blonde heads in an upper window kissing passionately. Hermione turned away, uncomfortable with such displays.

When the hour was done and Cormac was gone, Luna stood in the middle of the illusioned street. Imaginary cars drove directly through her, as though she were no more substantial than a passing cloud. And then, as quickly as everything had come to pass, it was gone, with Luna standing closer to her now; although, neither of them had physically moved. Hermione wondered just how the magic of the rooms worked. 

“Cormac was born for a place like this,” Luna started, “He’s the sort of person that does well under a singular purpose, a singular directive. The Philosopher’s Sacramens’s ideas are certainly better than what Voldemort had in mind, so I suppose I understand.”

Feeling that disgust from earlier, Hermione bit her lip to keep from shouting. “So, you’ll let him purchase you? I had no idea that’s what you meant earlier. That isn’t accepting being someone’s mistress; that’s just taking on a new master.”

Luna flitted across the room and sat next to Hermione on the single bed, “As you said, I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, regardless, but I rather like Cormac. Being bought or succumbing to death is the only way out of this place, save for a full pardon from the Sacramens, and you shouldn’t expect anything like that to happen unless you’re one of the Madame’s top girls and by that point, they’re too used to the lifestyle to want anything more.”

“I’m sorry, Luna.” Hermione couldn’t think of a worse punishment than living with an undeserved fate. Harry came to mind, and she shook him off.

Luna patted Hermione’s leg. “I’m not in the slightest. I am rather fond of him. He’s a bit too silly and in love with himself, but he makes me smile. And I say there’s nothing greater in life than finding someone who wants to make you happy.”

Hermione found that she couldn't respond. She hadn’t thought of much outside her rescue projects for a very long time, and smiling was hardly a requirement. She wanted to broach the subject of what happened to the girls that died, but she didn’t know how. The Ministry wasn’t even a decade old and Luna spoke as if dying were a regular occurrence but Hermione kept quiet before finally getting up to wander back to her own room. 

Luna spoke again just as Hermione’s hand was on the door. Her tone was soft and airy, which Hermione found disturbing, “Tomorrow, I’ll begin setting up your own illusion for you. You won’t be getting a wand right now but I’ll make sure your illusion holds so you can get used to interacting with the illusion itself before you have your first guest. And, hopefully, you’ll be getting your name soon.”

“Do I decide what you create?”

Luna walked to Hermione’s side, “No, we all start with the same basic illusion. It’s simple but helpful when trying to learn. Asphodel Meadows is lovely, if not a bit lacking. However, I’m going to slip a bit of extra magic in there for you. I hope you like it.” 

Without waiting for permission, Luna kissed the top of Hermione’s head, and the dark-skinned woman was transported to a younger, less crimped and creased time in her life when magic was new and all that worried her were dragons and snakes and crawling things. Hermione wished desperately to go back to that before... And just like her fleeting memory, Luna too was gone much too quickly as the door was shut behind her.

* * *

Shepherd's pie and a large glass of butterbeer were a very rich meal in comparison to Hermione’s survival diet and after dinner, she quickly succumbed to sleep. 

When she awoke abruptly the next morning, she found the two causes almost immediately. First, her room had been completely transfigured and the smell of baked goods filled the room. 

Where there once had been cold metal walls now stood a fully realized and idyllic grassland with wildflowers blowing in the slight breeze and the sun shining softly upon the scene. Hermione spied bunnies hopping in the distance with the image of a crystal blue river slowly waving downstream. She heard a bird call and looked up to see a majestic one flying high above her. And there, on one of the rolling hills, lay a blanket with a picnic basket open atop it. 

Despite knowing the scene was not real, what with transfigured creatures popping in and out of sight, a lazy river, and soft breezes in the middle of her bedroom, Hermione still found herself speechless. 

However, her second cause of waking was not nearly so pleasant and left her head spinning. It was the clink of medical equipment hitting a tin tray. The lovely Hydra stood some two metres from her, lying on the checkered picnic blanket eating its contents with wicked delight. Upon seeing Hermione staring at her in horror, the healer’s smile widened.“Good morning to you, sleeping beauty. I’m here to examine you, and, you have no appointments,” Hydra grinned. “I checked.”

Hermione had not survived five years of trauma by continually kicking and screaming. She had learned a thing or two as Undesirable Number One. She knew that there were times to fight and times to relent, knowing you were beaten. Until she’d found a way out of this place, she’d relent when forced, but she’d remember every damn name of every damned person that crossed her. And when she was cut free, Hermione wasn’t even certain how bad the punishments would be.

So, instead, she looked about her new playroom- no, a golden, gilded version of purgatory- and giving it a proper once over. It was almost exactly as she’d imagined purgatory to look in a Greek mythos when her mother had read her stories about them as a child. Its rivers were made of spun silk that slithered down the well-worn canals; the animals were cute in the most gothic sense, and the air itself smelled of fresh tilled soil and grass in mid-spring after the rains. It was perfection or rather very close to it, but just as Dante had discovered, it was slightly inferior to Hermione’s wildest dreams.

Hydra was suddenly at her left side and Hermione was unsure how she’d moved so quickly. The healer seemed to know what Hermione was thinking and whispered, “Almost, but not quite.” 

Hermione got out of bed not wanting the healer to loom over her any more than she already did. Most of the girls she’d met so far were tall, but Hydra’s height was that of a giantess, a gorgeous one if Hermione were telling the truth.

Hermione thought of not responding at all just to spite the healer but decided to at least attempt diplomacy. “You’re spot on. I can’t put my finger on what’s missing.”

Hydra laughed but the sound was strangled as though dripped in daggers. “You’re new here. Spend the next two years in this little hellscape and you’ll be able to pick it out.”

“Is that the expectation?” Hydra was in front of her now, walking nearly into Hermione in such a way that forced Hermione to back up until her calves hit her bed and she fell onto her back. Hydra helped her up and moved her over to the picnic area where her tools were laid out and shining menacingly.

“Is what the expectation?”Hermione asked to distract herself. Hydra’s eyes glittered in an odd fashion that made her seem otherworldly, but she shrugged in confusion. 

“That it takes about two years or so to move up the ladder...to be promoted.”   
  


The grip on her arm loosened, not that it was very tight, to begin with, and she saw why. Hydra looked at her with almost disappointment. “Already planning to sleep your way to the top? Why am I not surprised; everyone comes in here yelling about their rights until they realize it’s just easier to go along.”

Hermione bit her tongue even as she wanted to snap, but knew it would not be smart to do so. Hydra seemed to be under the impression that Hermione would fight somehow, that she would be different. And that was the first bubble of excitement she’d really felt. If someone expected her to not just go along, then there was tangible hope. Perhaps there was some small rebellion happening from the inside. Hermione had to be observant and smart if she wanted to find out what things were brewing if a change was wanted. If it was, that could be her ticket. Finally, Hermione had a path forward rather than just a sick feeling in her stomach. She had a project, a mission.

  
“There is no rotation. No rhyme or reason that I can see to Alba Erica’s favor. One moment, you’re a novice, and the next, you could be anything. You could even be dead.”

“What happens to them?” Hermione was even surprised at her ability to be horrified in this world but reasoned that was probably because she finally had something to pin her hopes on.

“Why, planning to escape already? I thought the great Hermione Granger wanted to be the top girl? Wanted to be mummy Alba’s favorite little whore, just so she’d call you pretty.” 

Rather than angry, Hermione found herself at the beginning of something. She always knew when an epiphany was forming in her own mind and one was tickling at her brain right now.

“You’re very angry with me, maybe even jealous. Yesterday, you were just a bit creepy, but today you’re in a foul mood. Have I hurt you in some way?” Hermione said this as she had been softly pushed to the picnic blanket with the bottom of her shift dress pushed up to expose her bottom half.

Hydra had her thin fingers pressed against Hermione’s belly as she stared directly at her. “I’m not jealous of you.” A tingling began in her navel and traveled outward. It reminded Hermione of the laughing gas her mum used when she needed to pull one of Hermione’s teeth as a child. It made her feel heavy and light and tingly and cool all at once and she felt that same way now. Hermione waved her hand violently, as though to push the healer off, but Hydra did not budge. Hermione retreated. 

“Not jealous  _ of _ me,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. She felt her consciousness slipping through her fingers like sand.

“I can help you if you want. “

Swallowing, Hermione pushed down her first instinct to spit at the offer. If she wanted to survive, Hermione needed to get used to unsavory characters.

Instead of directly responding, she asked, “How so?”

“When I’ve decided you’re worthy, I may show you.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Hydra smirked in a way that told Hermione that the two of them, both knew that it wasn’t true. “Undesirable No. 1- Uni for short. I too am looking forward to it. Now sleep.” And then, the healer pulled out a wand that Hermione knew to be a true, uncapped one. She heard the woman whisper diagnostic spells as the last of her consciousness edged away. Hermione couldn’t help wondering as her eyes closed what the point of waking her up in the first place had been if Hydra only ever meant to put her back to sleep. 


	6. Limbo Breaking. Lust Creating- Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione entertains her first client. He takes more than she was ready to give.

Hermione awoke with only stillness to greet her. She knew she was still in her room as the shapes were now familiar to her after a few days in her new home. Flexing her fingers, she felt cotton fabric under her skin, and then she remembered that Hydra had rendered her unconscious to determine her nightly price; she was truly getting tired of not having control over her own body. 

Rolling over with care, Hermione found that her body felt as rested and limber as when she awoke days ago in that shack. In fact, she felt exactly the same. Magic was a curious art and hardly a science and yet there were hard, unassailable rules when one knew how to listen for them. A person’s magic was like their fingerprint, each signature was unique. If a learned person knew what they were looking for, they could discern the taste, indeed, the very smell of someone’s magic like a sommelier knowing the difference between a 17th century vintage french Bordeaux and a 19th-century facsimile. It was an art, but if one knew what to taste for, there was knowledge to be found in it. 

Hermione had found early on in life that she was an observant sort of girl who had particular tastes that very few people had, so when she realized that the aftertaste of the magic lingering on her now felt the very same as it had in that shack, she was positive in her own assessment. 

And if that were the case, something was very, very wrong. For one, it had been made clear to her that the Madame’s girls -- or any brothel girls -- for that matter had to apply for and purchase free time, but their service wands stayed with their employer. Most girls did not roam too far from the district as not everyone respected the property of the brothel owners and would do some girls harm. So, it was unlikely that Hydra had had enough money to purchase a day off or two, go to the train station, knock her out and drag her away from a fight, tend to her wounds, change her clothing and provide her with an upper management man’s cloak, find and leave her in a relatively safe place and return to her employer all in the nick of time. Without a wand. Something was very, very wrong. 

Unfortunately, the life of a blooming flower waited not for man nor musing thought and Hermione soon found Luna at her door. Luna swept into her room in a tulle and lace gown that twinkled as she walked -- it was of the finest blue hue and her hair was swept up and braided elegantly about her neck. She, of course, wore no shoes and no makeup but looked as radiant and wraith-like as a thestral waiting to usher Hermione to her doom.

Hermione had a customer booked for that day apparently, as Luna let it slip rather glibly. Luna told Hermione that she had several customers, or at least potential customers waiting for a turn with her. And each one was willing to pay handsomely for the opportunity. Luna, while more than happy to share the news in that monotone way of hers, was unwilling to reveal how she knew so much and ignored Hermione’s attempts to get more behind-the-scenes details. Finally, Hermione relented and Luna continued gossiping.

There were so many interested customers in fact, that several of the other girls were already getting anxious and snappish. Many girls, especially Rosemary, were obsessed with their job stats. They agonized over who would be promoted next and often played little games to get ahead. That sort of backhanded silliness was fine, but Hermione’s celebrity was one step too far and bad blood was already brewing. Current gossip said Hermione had the potential to overtake all the girls if her popularity continued. She’d rise through the ranks incredibly quickly and wield ten times her expected power in only a few short weeks. 

Hermione clenched her jaw as Luna relayed this information to her in that breathy way she did everything. Despite not having many girlfriends during her life, Hermione was no stranger to backstabbing and passive aggression. If all the other girls hated her already, there would be a target on her back and she’d need to sleep with an eye always open. It was imperative that she changed the narrative quickly and found some allies or this life could turn into a nightmare. Hermione was so tired of fighting. Her thoughts quickly spiraled before her friend intervened.

Smiling and cupping Hermione’s cheek with light eyes that had an off-putting hardness to them, Luna shook her head and told her not to worry in the slightest about Rosemary or any of the other girls. The Madame would take care of her. At that moment, Hermione was struck- in that special way that happened to only young children when hit with a new, strange sensation that they did not know the meaning or significance of, but could feel its importance hovering in the air. Luna was more than fatigued or bravely downtrodden in an ethereal way; Luna was different. Full stop. She had a manner about her that was at once not quite hard, but sturdy and a soft touch. 

The tall beauty reminded Hermione almost of her own mother whom she had not seen in many years. It was Hermione’s mother that had taught her the ways of life as her father was often milling about cleaning teeth and chasing skirts. Her mother reared her with an iron rod while praising her more stellar accomplishments unlike her father, whose mercurial parenting style often left her either too indulgent or stricken. Hermione grew to appreciate her mother’s orderly and rule-bound personality while absolutely hating chaos.

It was that mix of feminine absurdity and steel will that had made Hermione the woman she was. And, it felt like a kindle when pressed up against Luna’s flint. There was something familiar and frightening about the younger woman as though they’d traded places and all Hermione’s running and hiding had garnered nothing important whilst Luna with her legs pulled wide had learned of the whole world. 

Hermione was aware of what a petty person she was at that moment but found that she couldn’t stop. While there was nothing wrong with industrious economy and using one’s given skills to pursue a living, and certainly nothing inherently wrong with sex work, Hermione wasn’t ready to count herself amongst the profession just yet. A part of her was still a vagabond, running and hiding, never stopping the rebellion even if most of her friends were dead. To stop fighting now and accept her fate was admitting her ideals and values had been defeated; that the people she’d sworn loyalty to were gone whether it be through death or separation. To admit she was truly a brothel girl was to admit that she’d actually lost. 

Hermione was unsure if she was jealous of the hard-won knowledge her old friend possessed or grateful to only have love and loss to keep her personality in check. It hurt deeply that she could not decide which one was closer to her own personality. She wondered if Harry would feel shame to think about it as well.

“ Don’t worry so much about the other girls. Female felicity is a tentative, thin string. If you hold it too tight, it’ll snap and if you forget about it, it’ll break then too. There’s really no winning. Anyway, a little competition is good for you.”

Luna pulled Hermione’s head down to her lap in an approximation of a maternal gesture and despite herself, Hermione found herself relaxing in the position. “What do you mean?”

“You need something to challenge you. Multiple things if it can be done. It keeps your wits sharp.”

“I thank you for that lovely assessment, Luna,” Hermione responded dryly instead of blushing at the startlingly accurate assessment. 

“You’re welcome! And remember, it’s Moonflower in front of the guests and the other girls.”

“Seems a bit silly, all these codenames and such.”

The lithe girl smiled down at Hermione as she began finger combing Hermione’s hair. 

“Perhaps, but I think it keeps a bit of separation. We live, we work, we eat and we shag like mad here. I think a woman ought to have something that she keeps close to her own vest even if it’s only her name.”

Hastily, she added, “But of course, I’ll always be your Luna as you are my Hermione. It’s different between you and me.” She must have seen the slight hurt dressing Hermione's features. She ran a finger over her downturned lips and tapped them softly. Just like a mother would do. If Luna were the mother, what did that make Hermione?

“What is my codename then? Do I create it myself?”

“No, it will be given to you when the Madame has gathered some intel about you. She’ll speak with your patrons, the other girls and will have a chat with you soon to properly name you. For now, You’ll be addressed as ‘Sugar,’ it’s the name we start with until we earn a better one.”

“There are so many levels to this place. I have to earn that too?”

“I rather like Sugar. It’s much better than being called a Nargle -- nasty creatures you know.”

“So you’ve said,” Hermione grumbled. 

Luna untangled her fingers from Hermione’s thick curls and slipped a hand inside the breast of her dress to pull out a perfumed letter. “Here is some information on your first guest’s likes and dislikes. You’ll serve him tea and sandwiches and one of the house elves will be along soon to take your order.”

“Can’t the elves just serve whatever the guest wants rather than me telling them? That’s not very efficient.”

“It’s also not very good for guest relations. Think of your guests like patrons whom you have the opportunity to build rapport with over time and hopefully one day impress enough to take you away from here. Learning and anticipating their needs and even pushing the boundaries from time to time is your job. If they always came here and got the same thing, what would be their experience? Where is their excitement? You are the conductor that sends them on an adventure; if they wanted reliable and boring, they’d go shag their wives for free.”

Feeling a bit peckish, Hermione shot back, “I thought you said shagging wasn’t an expectation.”

Looking off into the gleaming meadow only steps away from them, Luna held out a finger as though to touch it somehow from across the room. Hermione’s comment lingered in the air like a spider’s web and neither of them wanted to yank it down. After some time, Luna broke the silence with a weary, well-traveled voice. 

“It isn’t, but as I said, you’ll wish it were. Regardless, you need time to study and I need to get ready for my own appointment.”

“Do you really have to go?”

“Chin up, Hermione. It’s nearly showtime. Now let me finish combing your hair then I want you in the shower to loosen up; you’re much too tense.”

\----

Her door creaked open and a part of her felt indignant. This person was entering the first private space that she’d had in years and like a spoiled child was causing a ruckus. Hermione stood slowly as she had been taught as she gulped down her anger. She dipped her head gracefully to show her deference before standing erect. A smell introduced the person into her room; it was not a terrible smell but something faint and amicable like lavender and lilacs that had been pressed between two pieces of parchment to dry but still crept through the air like a thief in the night.

“Good afternoon. May the Ministry bless power upon you.” Hermione stammered as her guest entered. His cloak hung low on his head, obscuring his features, but his uniform outed him as a member of the Godric’s Guard. He walked slowly into the room with carefully planned steps. 

His voice was gruff as though just waking but there was a familiar cadence to it, “Good afternoon to you, Miss Sugar. And may it bless you with power as well.” He bowed in return but remained slightly hunched over as to give no hint to his features. 

When he did not say more, Hermione pushed forward and asked, “May I take your cloak, sir? I’ve just laid out a selection of biscuits and tea that I’m told you enjoy. I’d- I welcome you to sample them?” Hermione blushed stupidly as she stammered over the words she’d practiced with Luna only that morning. If it wouldn’t have been even more disruptive, she would have smacked her forehead. The man hesitated a moment, before straightening his back and tipping his head back, and letting his hood fall behind him. As he righted himself and looked into her eyes, Hermione stumbled backward before putting herself in between her desk and the man.

It was Harry Potter.

“Dear god- What- Who are you?” 

Those piercing green eyes narrowed with catlike grace that was anything like the mannerisms of her beloved friend. 

The man shivered slightly as though bracing against an unexpected chill, “Now is that any way to treat your first patron? I paid handsomely to ensure I’d be your introductory experience. Wanted to indoctrinate you into the ranks.”

Shaking, but not wanting to show it, Hermione jutted out her chin. “May I have your name, sir, so that I may address you properly?”

He slid toward her, “Harry’s fine. We are best mates, aren’t we? You almost don’t look happy to see me.” The creature imitating her friend pouted mockingly while moving into her personal space. 

“Very- very well, Mr. Potter. If that’s what you’d like me to address you as. Now, can I provide you with tea?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

She refused to show him any more weakness and held her head high as she gestured for the imposter to follow her. She stepped past her room proper and into the illusion only paces in front of her. There was a small outdoor furniture set in the middle of Asphodel Meadows where a delicate display of tea sandwiches and biscuits sat along with a tea set. 

The disgusting snake, or whatever it was that was imitating her friend, pulled out her chair before he seated himself across from her. Her hands barely trembled as she served his tea and placed a cucumber sandwich upon the delicate china placed before him. 

“Thank you, Sugar. I see you’ve done your homework. I am delighted by the selection.”

Hermione painted a strained smile on her face before nodding. 

“Always.” 

She fiddled with her sandwich for a moment before remembering that was hardly ladylike. She was also very unsure as to what to do next. Luna hadn’t told her much about what would happen after tea in the Meadows, as it wasn’t a proper illusion with people and buildings and the like. Hermione was unsure of how to entertain her guest but did not have long to ponder.

Abruptly sitting down his teacup, the man dabbed at his mouth in a genteel fashion that again was so unlike Harry that it troubled her. He was an imposter pantomiming and disrespecting her friend’s memory and she held back a tirade.

“Tell me something,” he began, as she had now decided that only a man could be so cruel, “how are you enjoying your new accommodations?”

Smiling with a coyness that she did not feel, Hermione leaned in and rested her hand on his thigh, “I’m more than happy to discuss my lodgings with you if you’ll answer a question for me.”

Laughing deeply at the abrupt change in her attitude, the man ran his pale hand up Hermione’s arm in a languid motion as one would a lapdog, “That is not how your interludes will always go, so don’t expect it, but I find myself curious about what question Undesirable Number One could have for me.”

Cocking her head to the side as though inspecting an absurd oddity like a dancing flobberworm, Hermione said, “How did you acquire Harry’s hair to create this little costume? I burned the body myself to ensure no degenerates attempted to defile his gravesite. Better yet, that question isn’t clever.” 

Her hand was still moving on his skin and now she found her fingers tracing the zipper teeth of his trousers. She pressed on him with both her fingers and with her sharp tongue as she slowly undid the zipper restricting him, “So, I’ll ask you this instead: how does it feel carrying his weight on you? Your trousers are clearly made for a taller, thinner man and your arms are practically swimming in your shirt. You look rather uncomfortable in your own clothing and I wonder if it were worth it, knowing even in size that you could never measure up.” 

His zipper was completely down and there was a lump growing in his pants. Her fingers stilled and she looked directly into his eyes. The hazy sunlight above them caught his eyes and she was able to see the dark flecks in those eyes, but she realized then that the shape was not exactly right- too round- a small marker of a deteriorating potion.

“How are your accommodations?” he repeated with a measure of control.

“Superb, now to my question.” 

He had been rather playfully teasing up until then when his hand came up to her throat. He neither squeezed nor gripped at her but flexed his fingers as if to tell her that only his control, and not hers, kept him from doing so. 

The man she refused to call Harry leaned towards her. She didn’t stare at his messy hair. She didn’t. “How are they really?”

He was deflecting, but her inability to keep the anger simmering under her skin from bubbling out was what provoked her to snap. She’d need more cunning- more artful planning if she wanted to excel. She was failing miserably and was unable to keep her irritation from showing when she responded. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Why am I pushing you? Because no one ever did that for you back in Hogwarts while I saw you do it for everyone else. I just want to check on you, Mione.”

“You sound like him. Stop it.”

Breaking character and cadence, the man smiled mirthlessly, “Don’t tell me you never wondered what it would be like to be cared for by him? From what I could see, you did all the caring.”

“That isn’t true.” She stood up and moved. She tripped and he caught her by the arm and yanked her back so that she was nearly sitting on the garden table housing their refreshments.

“Oh, without a war on, perhaps he would have noted your existence but he’s dead now. But I am not, wouldn’t you like to know what it was like, even if only for a moment?”

“Sir, what would you like to do?”

Gesturing towards her disheveled countenance and stance, he replied, “This works fine for my benefit.”

“Please.”

His eyes were hard, but that was not what wrecked her. It was the calculating look the impersonator had put on Harry’s face that made Hermione feel off-kilter and lost. He was tainting the memory of her first friend and it was breaking something tender and true inside her. Even as he faced down Voldemort, even while dying with the Devil himself, Harry had managed a split moment to give her his final smile and assure her that he would die with his purity and honor still gleaming. 

“No, and that is why I am wearing this costume as you call it because I wanted to be your first. I will have it.”

“You’re trying to steal my virginity,” she whispered in awe, “how did you know I was one?”

“Your very, and I do mean very, hefty nightly price came with an included health report which gave any and all serious connoisseurs an opportunity to review your specifications. There was quite a bidding war for you, and my final price was an even larger sum than what it would have been for just spending time with the Hermione Granger, which I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear is right up there with the Madame’s most senior associates. I’m sure that won’t raise any jealousy in the workplace at all.” 

This was all Hydra’s doing, Hermione thought. She decided then and there that she’d get vengeance on that healer for putting her in this position. Her virginity wasn’t something she particularly cared about one way or the other. She found labeling women by such silly classifications to be the height of male fragility, but all the same, it was hers, like a roommate that she didn’t have too much affection for but had lived with for too long to ignore straight out. 

“I understand now. The great Harry Potter bedding the Hermione Granger. I bet you find it poetic in some sick version of justice. You aren’t fit to lick his boots, but sleeping with his Muggleborn makes you feel like something.”

Rather than being offended or angry, he seemed to be unsurprised by her venomous assessment of his character, as if he knew her well enough to anticipate what she might say. “I can admit playing the hero has been amusing but it wasn’t and isn’t about him. Harry Potter is dead; he was dead the moment he was born with a prophecy on his head. I always found him painfully dull, but you were something special.” 

The man stood and had wiggled his way between her legs. He reached down and pinched a strand of her hair between his forefinger and thumb before rubbing it gingerly. It struck Hermione that both he and Luna had been very fascinated with her hair, which only made her more uncomfortable, as neither Luna nor Harry had ever been particularly interested before. Had things changed so much?

“I wanted you back then and I wanted to be the first to see you now. Despite what you think, I want to do this for you, so what better gift can I give you? And what better person to take you than the one who put you on this ghastly path in the first place. Let me ruin you. Get it over with.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Who are you?”

He came beside her; his fingers were cold as they gripped her waist. 

“You know who you want me to be.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I’m your best friend. Of course, you do.” 

She sobbed lightly and her trembling felt like an eventuality, like an acquiescence, like a regret, but a yes, nonetheless. It was sinister and stirring, but she did not lean away from him. From  _ Harry _ . 

“I’m Harry. Keep saying it.” And so she did even as he laid her down on those green fields with her eyes facing those calico skies of white, blue, and gold. And she continued to say it as he smoothed her kinky curly hair back from her face so that she could truly see Harry’s painfully lost face in her line of sight. In a moment that she would regret later, Hermione cupped Harry’s jaw in her palm as she’d always wanted to do. But soon she closed her eyes as even his jawline began to slowly warble and deform under her hand. He was Harry. He was Harry He was Harry-

“Don’t move. Not even an inch.” He whispered as his gruff hands calloused from too much housework but bony from not ever getting enough food to eat, descended down to her collarbone right above her heaving breasts. He spoke as if he’d known her- who was he? Was her infamy really so far and so wide? And how could she use that to her advantage?

She was not given long to ponder as those rough hands moved away from her neck and gently- almost tenderly- ran down her arms. She kept repeating what he’d told her. This was Harry touching her. This was Harry pushing up her dress. This was Harry ruining her. And, that she could live with. So she said goodbye to her old roommate and a part of her was relieved to have it done and gone anyway. It was one less thing that she had to hold on to and she desperately envisioned a life when clutching every piece of herself close was no longer her preoccupation. At least in this, she could breathe.

For what it was worth, he was not hard with her sex when he hovered over her, this Harry who wasn’t. She felt him at her entrance for just a moment before he surged inside. There was discomfort as her maidenhead was breached, but it wasn’t the worst feeling. She closed her eyes, so as not to look at Harry’s face. It shouldn’t have been him, anyone but him, regardless of what this person had thought. 

The breach did not bother her nearly as much as the examination. Her lover was clinical in his analysis of her skin, curls, and very being. He stroked the white slashes crisscrossing her chest as they stood in bas-relief on her clay colored skin as though inspecting an incision he’d made long ago that hadn’t healed as he’d hoped but had categorized the shape of for future study. And, when that was done, he kneaded her hips until they were tender and pliant under his fingers before injecting his sharp nails into her and siphoning out droplets of blood for later study. Her neck was next on his checklist as he clasped her windpipe dispassionately as though measuring its size.

Finally, _ finally _ , as his pleasure was at its zenith and Hermione had long submitted to his ministrations, he pulled his tongue over her earlobe whispering a spell in a tongue she didn’t recognize. An unnatural heat seeped into her skin but it felt distant and uncaring like a desert breeze that had traveled a long way to reach her but had stopped caring halfway through the trip and she recognized the mechanical orgasm settling over her as his spell took hold. He had the nerve to come with her in a way that felt as comforting as it did it disconcerting. His speculum, cold and hard, pulled out of her and the assessment was over.

Sometime later and it could have been hours, but was most likely only a few minutes, given what she’d read about men’s stamina, she whispered to the man who lay panting by her side. 

“I find it odd that you would don a Harry suit and pay so much to be my first experience if we’re both being honest. From what I understand, you’ve been here many times and enjoy a certain illusion so why you’d pay so highly for a newbie is beyond me.”

“Harry Potter was a right cunt, but I think even in death his life is so much more... _ something _ than mine; he’s the one that still got you after all.” 

Hermione was surprised by his candor and pulled away from him, but he seemed unphased. 

“Oh, I never lie. I don’t see the point and that is why I came here. I may be the last honest person you’ll ever meet. But not to worry, I’m even more hooked than I was before. I’ll be seeing you again, but alas not as poor Harry Potter.” 

She did not smile. She did not say anything at all. She did not watch him go. She did not even rise from her place on the soft grass that continued to sway in an unnatural wind.

But.

As she lay there and heard the door close softly behind her, Hermione felt the wind begin to whip and rage like small pinpricks determined to stab her. As her hair began to whip around her face and neck, Hermione did not move and found that she could not do so even if she’d tried. As the winds continued to gust, she realized it was the illusion breaking, the power used to create the meadows was being reabsorbed into the walls and she lay directly in its epicenter, but it wasn’t calm. It was not serene. She was buffeted about in the winds like an adulterous lover receiving an eternal punishment.

Hermione was truly a flower now and she swore she heard the room christening her, her new name whispered in the wind... 

But she would not say it or think it. She did not wish to give voice to it just yet.

Although, at that moment she knew that what the room told her was true.

  
  


She had entered the true hell now. Her ideals- her rebellion lay defeated on the soft grass; she was one of  _ them _ now. And she deserved to be in the Sugarhouse because she could still smell that old familiar scent of Harry flicking through her hair. The truth was she’d enjoyed the taste of him on her tongue. She had missed that flavor in her mouth. She’d enjoyed it as much as her partner had, whoever it was, although a heaping helping of resounding horror flickering through her thoughts…

But she’d  _ reveled _ in it. She was a sinning moth pulled into that eternal flame and now she was finally here, as a true brothel girl. As the last of the magic funneled back into the walls and she lay on the cold ground, Hermione knew she’d fallen into something dirty and wrong but she found that she did not want to move. Not even an inch.


	7. Seated in Lust- Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione learns more about her first guest and finally meets the Madame, Alba Erica. Unfortunately, she's left with more questions than answers. We discover more about her rebellion with Neville Longbottom.

Chapter Six- Seated in Lust

As earth-shattering as losing one’s virginity was supposed to be, Hermione was ambivalent about the act itself and the new awareness of her physical body and all its aches and pains that she hadn’t had before. It was true what they said about one’s first time, in that it was an awakening of sorts, but all the other nonsense was ridiculous. 

She didn’t understand how having a penis interrupting her space made her anymore or less innocent than she had been only hours before. If a unicorn refused her hand on the basis of something so offhand and honestly underwhelming, she had half a mind to discount the entire race’s edicts altogether.

This was what had had girls burned at the stake or ruined and thrown out to stumble on the street? Abuse was another matter, but simple wake and shake sex hardly seemed that world ending. She’d gained very little new knowledge in the endeavor if she were truthful. She could not fathom how the mundane act of skin rubbing on skin was supposed to be the defining moment in her life, supplanting all the real, heart-wrenching trauma she’d faced in her twenty-three years of life. She felt very let down by the whole affair.

However, the unspeakable confusion that “Harry” had wrought had her trembling like a leaf, drying out painfully in harsh winds. She could never get that moment back and she hated her disgusting mind for now having to wonder: i _s that how Harry truly would have done it? Would he have been a bit slower? Faster? Perhaps less gentle as he would have been a hot-blooded boy shagging his closest friend for the first time?_

And, then unbidden, she also wondered what Neville would have been like _._ Then came the comparisons between Harry and Neville with her mind creating scenes for both boys and trying to pick a clear winner. After that, sleep was hard to find.

By the time she dressed for the next day, she was thoroughly horrified by her own mind. She couldn’t stop wondering if real Harry’s mouth would have tasted like blood like the imposter’s had or if he would have carved her channel to fit him as fake Harry had last night. There was something oozing and wrong inside her and she wanted it out, but it was determined to grow. She knew its name without even having to think. It was curiosity and it would have its way. 

But most oddly of all was that that lackluster experience turned disappointing memory, as banal as a strong handshake, was still inside her mind now. She wondered if it was the man himself who had awakened it or if her own lust had always been there. But, now she wanted to learn all of sex’s secrets. Millennia after millennia of muggles and wizards alike had been captivated by the act, so there must be more to it -more knowledge- more prowess to gain, and she intended to learn it all.

There was a knock at her door that roused her from her thoughts. It was a slight, barely there tap against the wood and she remembered the mailing system. Quickly opening the door and looking down at her mail slot, she opened it and grabbed a single envelope. Hermione had been told time and again that she was very popular so she wondered where all the tons of mail was that she was supposed to receive. Another girl was picking up her mail, Veronica again. The former Ravenclaw smiled at Hermione and greeted her. 

“You and I must be on similar sleep schedules,” Veronica said. 

Hermione looked about and saw that no one else had come to collect their mail, “Yes, I’ve always been an early riser.” Veronica nodded in response, but Hermione couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under the other girl’s eyes and the slight tremble to her fingers as she clenched down on her letters and cards.

“You should get some rest.”

Veronica smiled wanly and waved off the comment, “Just had some excess energy last night. Wasn’t able to settle down to sleep peacefully.” Hermione knew a plea to end a line of questioning when she heard it, so she bid the other girl a good morning and went back into her room.

There, she sat at her little desk and opened her letter. She recognized that slanted scrawl anywhere and the muggle memo pad paper that had been hastily ripped with jagged edges where clean, perforated edges should be hinted that the person pulling the paper had no idea what perforated paper was. It was Neville. He’d found a way to slip a message to her and her heart immediately cracked with the longing to see him again.

_Otter,_

_I cannot be sure you’ll see this, but if you do, I won’t reveal too much for fear that someone has already scanned over my message before giving it to you. Legolas are safe for now, but we are a long way from our destination. Once Legolas are secure; will enact phase two. Extraction may be delayed._

There is a break in the text after that. The latter half of the paper was water spotted in some places as though the writer’s tears had fallen to the page and Hermione knew in her heart that she was right. Underneath that is a short phrase written in a different ink color than the message above it. This latter phrase has clearly been carved into the paper almost tearing the memo in some places. Her mind’s eye imagines Neville shaking back tears and hating himself for his own weakness but unable to end his clinical letter without bleeding just a bit of his heart into it. It was why he was such a superior person and her best friend. His sweet, loyal spirit could never be stamped out when it came to his friends.

**_Gran, I’ve lost my toad again._ **

The missive was unsigned, but that final line might have been an explosion for how loud it screamed Neville’s name and it took her breath away. The air punched out of her lungs wafted away and she pictured that air traveling, traveling, traveling to Neville’s rock hard face that would only crumple for a moment as he continued on his journey- the grimace never staying long enough for the elves to see- and she imagined that air that had been punched out of her own lungs then slipped down into his, where their shared air could mingle together right atop his warrior’s heart. 

Neville was still fighting. He’d made it out of England and was traveling to Switzerland, a neutral zone not only for muggles but wizards, where he’d rendezvous with their fledgling rebellion outfit there. Phase two. 

The plan had never been for either of them to get caught, but having a man on the inside was not an inherently bad thing if it couldn’t be helped. There was a reason Hermione was always the one planned to be captured if it ever came to it. Neville’s designation was in the Husbandry District where he’d do okay as a Ministry Husband, but it would take years, if ever, for him to get any meaningful intel. 

Out of the three districts: Monk District, Husbandry District, and The Brothel District, only one was the land of secrets and sex. Of course, the Monk District would have been the best, but they both knew neither of them would have ever been allowed in there. So out of the two options, the Brothels were the best choice.

They’d always known Hermione could do more there in a year than a lifetime in Husbandry. If she wanted to know more about the inner circle of the Ministry, if she wanted to get close, the Brothel District was the place to do it. Toppling a government from the bottom is all well and fine, but takes too damned long and the manpower needed unimaginable. But, cutting off the head was so much more successful; Neville had taught them all that. 

Hermione needed to get to the top of the Madame’s circle where it was known that the top girls would entertain the highest level Monks and all three Mage Bishops. The Mage Bishops that were directly next to the Philosopher’s Sacramens in power and influence. The man she and Neville intended to usurp and expose.

Neville’s final words to her were just the kindle she needed to fire herself up. Trevor had been the inciting incident that had caused a chain reaction that had brought Neville and Hermione together, each other’s first friends, had brought the Golden Trio together, the familiar that had given him confidence in the face of adversity (Snape) and the fond friend he’d had to let go so that they could both be free. 

It was a message with a kaleidoscope of meanings, blessings, benedictions, and warnings all in one. It was a testament to their enduring friendship and Neville’s innate cleverness and love. It was a reminder for Hermione to get serious and do her damnedest to rise to the top because she was Neville’s toad. 

Hermione needed to make her name for herself and ride the wave of her popularity to get only the best clients. She’d master not only sexually entertaining her guests but building a customer experience that had even the highest Ministry officials begging for her. She’d feed their lust until they burst and all their secrets came spilling out. She’d make them loyal to her, begging for her, so much so that they’d willingly let her step on their heads until she made it to the very top. Once there, she would be the sword Neville used to behead yet another snake. 

* * *

The day had finally arrived for Hermione to meet her employer. The Madame had requested her presence and had sent a sniggering Rosemary to pull her through the many leveled building, Hermione found it difficult to keep track of her path. For her own safety, she knew she had to memorize this place and learn its nooks and kiss its crannies. It could very well save her one day, but with her ornery guide, it was hard to keep a cool head. 

In their limited acquaintance, Rosemary’s claws had only drawn more and more blood. That morning’s scratch was still only paper thin but Hermione knew it was only a matter of time before Rosemary angled her cuts to tear into flesh. At present, she was picking apart Hermione’s personal dress and making Undesirable Number One feel two centimeters tall.

“So you’ve chosen to embarrass your colleagues with that outfit? I know Luna taught you better than that.”

They had stopped after a turn around the corner from a secondary staircase. There were large windows above them streaming soft light into the stairwell. Hermione was dressed in her shift dress -- the nicer of the two she had -- had combed her hair and tied it back with a spare ribbon. She’d even polished her Mary Jane shoes, the ones that had been in her wardrobe waiting for her one morning. She wasn’t sure what more she could have done to be prepared.

Snapping in return, Hermione seethed, “I wore my best clothes and my only shoes. I’ve washed my hair and scrubbed my face.”

“And you look like a wet mouse. Where is your nice dress and slippers? Every girl gets an initial set along with a dressing gown. “

“I didn’t,” she responded simply. 

Sneering at her, Rosemary turned away and began galloping up the stairs. Following her, Hermione barely caught her comment, “If that’s the case, you should watch your back. Someone’s stealing already. Didn’t think they’d start so soon but you know how it is with women. Backstabbing bints, especially this lot.”

If Hermione weren’t so convinced of the other girl’s mean spirited nature, she’d swear the girl almost sounded concerned about Hermione’s predicament. And if her room weren’t secure, that could be a whole different problem for Hermione to deal with.

“Who should I report the theft to?”

The other girl stopped and peered at Hermione over the railing with her bangs nearly covering her eyes, “Oh love, I’m not sure you really want me to answer that,” before dipping her slender neck back over the railing and leaving Hermione the impression of a rough necked turtle going back into its shell. Giggling to herself, Hermione found her good mood again as her last thought reminded her of dear Fred, and for a moment, things were okay.

* * *

They’d reached the top of the stairwell and were able to see into the final floor of the Sugarhouse. The stairwell door was open allowing anyone on the stairs to get a view into what might as well have been another house entirely.

The very air in the sitting room felt beguiling as if waiting to beckon an enraptured patron right off the ledge and swiftly push him to his death. In the room sat elegant brothel girls, some writing letters while others practiced their embroidery and one sat playing the pianoforte while Husbandry men and Ministry Monks sat around with cigars chatting together.

The rest of the house was well furnished and decorated if not a bit Spartan in its decor, but this area was all gilded frames, delicate table arrangements, french styled furnishings, and fabric covered walls. The windows were tall and slender and allowed the room’s many mirrored surfaces to reflect the soft sunlight into the large sitting area like a Victorian painting. The furniture was refined but lightly colored and highly patterned with little domestic scenes playing out with heavily corseted women watching young boys playing in the gardens or lovers kissing softly underneath limbed trees. The entire room was exquisite in its private grandeur and Hermione found herself impressed by the Madame’s clear austerity and cultivated tastes. 

All of the girls were lovely and polished in fine dresses that harkened back to bygone eras. She couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that these perfectly coiffed and beautiful female faces engaged in the height of femininity were a smokescreen hiding sharp teeth that were ready to tear a man apart if the price was high enough or if they got a whiff of blood.

And somehow, Hermione found herself wondering what sharp teeth would feel like as they pierced her skin, and then, inevitably she wondered what it would be like to clench her teeth into a man’s smooth skin- feeling him writhe underneath her, completely at her mercy. 

Something hot and tingling licked at her belly. She needed to take care and not let her desires consume her, but rather learn because if she could be one of these top tier girls, the rebellion could win. And, then she could satiate her curiosity all she wanted.

There was a commotion in the stairwell leading to the final floor of the house considering that was where the staircase ended. There was a girl attempting to close the open door. Rosemary stood in the doorway hissing quietly to the girl who was silhouetted in golden light, giving her obscured features a halo effect. For a moment, Hermione thought she’d seen an angel before shaking her head as she remembered even the Devil was a beauty. The other girl wore fine robes made of what had to be acromantula silk and her hair was done up elaborately with ivory pins. As Hermione crept closer, she saw the sneer adorning the girl’s mouth and was able to overhear a few whispered words.

“This is not a good time. I’ll send for her.”

Was this the Madame? It was hard to hear her as she wore a silk scarf that covered the bottom half of her face, but the ensuing conversation made clear that she was merely a gatekeeper. 

“Alba Erica asked for her. I am not disobeying again.”

“We have a situation up here. I’ll cover for you; you know I’m good for it.”

“Why? What’s in it for you?”

The other girl’s eyes caught Hermione’s slow going gait and with a familiar narrowed eye before leaning close to Rosemary to whisper, but Hermione caught it anyway. 

“The new Mage Bishop is visiting tonight. He has some very specific requests. We have to prepare everything perfectly or Alba Erica will have our heads. Everyone’s practicing on these gentlemen we’re hosting today.”

“What does that have to do with showing off the new girl to Alba?”

“You know how Alba Erica is about shiny, new toys. We’ve worked our arses off to impress the Mage Bishop. What makes you think Little Miss Undesirable won’t steal our thunder?” The girl’s eyes roamed over Hermione’s body, “Graceless as she may be.”

“I can assure you that I have no intention of stealing anything from anyone.”

Rosemary’s eyes were alight as she hissed, “Stay out of this.”

But it was too late, the top level girl swung her face down to stare at Hermione. “I’m not sure what sort of game you’re playing- at least I hope you’re playing, because if you’re not, then you’re not very bright. The brothel business runs on excitement, fantasy. If you don’t know how fascinating you are and just how much of a demand you have, you’d better wise up, even if you do look something off the street.”

“I have no intentions of stealing. I’ll earn my place,” Hermione said. Perhaps, she missed the mark as the girl just rolled her eyes and turned away.

“Forget it, Rosemary. This one’s clueless. Go ahead and take her up.” The other girl turned slowly and let the door slam in Rosemary’s face. Rosemary clenched and unclenched her fists at this before turning to Hermione.

“Do not speak- Do not breathe until I tell you to.” Hermione folded her hands across her chest and looked away. No matter the age being chastised always made her chin wobble in the most obvious ways. Rosemary, far more like Hermione’s mother than her father, was not inclined to comfort her. 

Sighing softly, Hermione gave voice to her concerns. “I don’t understand all the tension around me. Everyone looks at me like I’m gum on their shoe.”

Yanking Hermione’s arm and hoisting the door, Rosemary flung the other girl over the threshold. Before she could compose herself, the lithe girl’s mouth was directly next to Hermione’s ear. 

“You are very green. Everyone is _afraid_ of you. Don’t you understand that? Take this free advice because I’ll never repeat it: you’re the first real threat that’s ever walked through our door. Use it, you idiot. Primrose and all these other arseholes think you’ll steal their thrones. Take everything. Show no mercy. Or else, I’ll be coming for you.”

Cocking her head to the side, Hermione asked, “Why help me?”

Rosemary tensed; she clenched her fists and set her jaw, before sneering at her. “I was told to. You have a friend in a very high place and I know better than to disobey him.”

“Who?” Hermione demanded. The insignia pin, the cloak, the shed outside the town...was it all from the same person? 

Rosemary replied, “I don’t know, but he has eyes and ears everywhere and if he wants something from you, you give it to him. Now, come on. You’ll be late.”

Hermione decided Rosemary enjoyed being theatrical because the other girl didn’t give her one moment to compose herself as grabbed Hermione’s hand and crossed the sitting room to an open corridor. Then she unceremoniously pushed Hermione through yet another door before slamming it shut, leaving Hermione alone at last.

With her heart beating rapidly, Hermione took stock of this new place. It was a secluded corridor decorated with Victorian-era busts and paintings. She could only see only one door at the very end of the hall. The door was ornately carved with twirling designs that seemed to undulate gracefully. The air here was also fresher and cleaner as though closer to the sky somehow. Hermione realized that none of the outside noise or even noises of a house full of employees could be heard up here as if a silencing charm had been laid into the very walls and floors. Faintly, a light harpsichord could be heard playing. Without much guesswork, Hermione deduced that these were the Madame’s personal rooms and she found that her heartbeat became even more erratic; her innate need to please authority still fluttered inside her heart even as she’d done so much to hammer it into submission. 

She ignored it in lieu of charging through the door with all the confidence she could muster. Why waste time dithering about her fears when she could just face them? 

Hermione was surprised to find that the room that lay beyond the door did not match the rest of the decor and reminded her much more of a typical brothel. The room was darkened as the large windows were covered with thick curtains and the color scheme was a mix of reds and violets. A shroud of deep crimson hung in the center of the room, separating the room from end to end. The covering was rich in color but quite gauzy material meant to give impressions of the person sitting on the other side without express detail. 

The woman on the other side appeared to be quite an at ease, lounging on some type of chaise, although there was no furniture at all on her side of the curtain. Hermione could see she wore her hair piled atop her head, but it was difficult to know what the woman’s features truly looked like. From her position, she appeared to be reading, with a graceful inclined towards her book and her long legs that stretched out before her giving the impression of advanced height. There was a curling smoke winding up from the lit cigarette she smoked.

“Good Morning, Miss Granger. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance and I trust that your introduction to our home has been adequate.” She’d expected the woman’s voice to be husky with smoke, but it was clean and the woman’s good breeding bled through. Her words were precise without any lazy pronunciation or excessive volume. 

There was much more to the Sugarhouse than simple sexwork which put this house in a league of its own when compared to other houses. From what she’d gathered, there was a theatrical aspect to the work here. The Sugarhouse sold fantasies and imagination and dreams. It gave a name to the dark desires and christened them beautiful. Hermione couldn’t help but feel that even now, the Madame was weaving a tale especially for her. That even this was not all together real-an an illusion of vapor and steam that only framed the outlines while obscuring the thing itself. If Hermione only pushed back the curtain, if she were only so bold, she might find something stark and crooked hiding in plain sight.

Hermione was witnessing a great master at work and she’d decided to take copious notes.

“Oh yes, I have found the accommodations more than fair and Moonflower has been so kind and helpful. I-I thank you for allowing me into your home; I’m sure there were many considerations to be taken into account and it could not have been an easy decision.”

“I am so pleased to hear that and I am also very happy to see your manner has improved quite nicely under Moonflower’s tutelage. She’s kept me apprised of your progress and I must say I am very pleased. And as to your employment, I am a champion to my girls, and what sort of champion ignores a national treasure in need?” 

Hermione stuttered out what she hoped was an acceptable response, although she felt slightly out of her league with the Alba Erica’s final comment too heavy to ruminate on at that moment. That left Hermione with nothing much else to say. Was she to entertain this person? Was there an agenda or list of topics to be discussed that would be presented? While she’d never had an actual job before, she imagined this to be a less than a conventional interview. 

The other woman seemed content to smoke and read while never offering any conversation or even permitting Hermione to sit. She continued to keep her neck lowered indifference to her employer with her hands clasped daintily in front of her waist as Luna had taught her.

She remained in this position for a long while, keeping time by counting the seconds. When her neck and upper back began to tingle, Hermione found that she couldn’t be bothered to keep up the ruse any longer. “Pardon me, Ma’am, but is there something specific you’d like to discuss with me?”

A porcelain thin laugh slipped from the woman’s mouth before its soft echo was swallowed into the carpet, staining the already awkward silence into something more feral and haunting. The woman did not bother to soak up her words and instead let Hermione’s question seep into the plush carpets of the room like wine. A crimson cabernet.

Fully out of her depth now, Hermione straightened and felt her nostrils flaring out. She knew when she was being put upon and this took the cake. She had half a mind to-

“Half a mind to what, darling girl? Screech like a chicken when you don’t like something? I’m not sure that behavior will make you terribly popular...well perhaps amongst the masochists, but those are a special breed. Half of them aren’t nearly as sensual as they think they are.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione intended it to come out irate and true but instead found herself whimpering out a reply. How had the woman read her mind? She hadn’t even felt a whiff of Legilimency.

“Oh, I do think I rather like you. You’ve certainly matured into a mildly competent young woman and I find you very amusing. I think I’ll keep you, but if you’re to be one of my pets, you’ll need to earn it. And you can’t continue to broadcast every feeling and thought like a baby elephant stomping on the good china. You lack subtlety but we’ll get that rubbed out quickly.” 

At this, Alba Erica stopped and put a delicate finger to her chin for a moment, before slowly changing direction as an idea took flight and was out of the Madame’s mouth before Hermione could catch her breath, “Or perhaps not, it depends on what the customers like. Mr. Dolohov was certainly taken with you.”

Her heart fluttered and her emotions dived down to the sole of her feet, resting there and waiting to be trampled on. The small incline to the Madame’s face signaled that Hermione was still broadcasting; still giving her emotions over to the woman. Hermione wasn’t sure if this was a test and the Madame was waiting to see if Hermione could get herself under control or if the women just felt like messing with her, however it didn’t actually matter. There was no one way to win at this dangerous game if she didn’t know how to keep her secrets safe. Hastily, she drew up her tattered Occlumency walls and closed her eyes.

Shivering from someplace deep inside, Hermione erected an ice palace with stone-shaped ice bricks in her mind. The palace was always in her mind unfinished, but waiting for her return. A jagged knife appeared in her mind’s eye and she began whittling more ice blocks intending to complete her construction. When she was done, she walked inside her frozen palace and shed her emotions and feelings like a cloak, and put each trembling feeling and memory into the coat closet before slamming the closet door shut. 

When she opened her eyes, there was an ever-present cold draft in the back of her mind as though someone had forgotten to close a window completely and let the winter chill inside. That was where her most important thoughts and feelings were housed. The sensation of ice tickling her mind kept her sharp, alert. She couldn’t be sure, but she could have sworn she saw the Madame’s form shiver a bit and Hermione inwardly smiled. 

The woman across from her said, “Better, but you’ve always been a quick study.”

“I suppose we’ve met then? And all these cloak and dagger tricks are to play with me?”

“What do you mean, pet?”

“The shroud...not letting me see your face...the codenames?”

“Don’t be so self-absorbed; it’ll give you wrinkles. Not everything is for your benefit, but I appreciate _narcissism_. You and I will get along just fine, and everyone knows who you are so the codename is more to invite you into the fold more than protecting your identity.”

Unsure what to say, she stood in the Madame’s quiet, cutting words and let them lash at her feet. “As I said, I like you so I’ll bring you up to the second level; you’d do well with the promotion.”

“I intend to earn my place,” Hermione replied stubbornly.

Sharply, the woman’s head swung to face her. SHe couldn’t discern the color of the woman’s eyes, but she felt the heat of her gaze on her skin, “You earn it when I say you do. When I come for you, you will be ready. Regardless, I tire of you, Tansy. You may go.”

With a flick of her long fingers, the door behind her swung inward, nearly grazing Hermione’s rump in its arc. The woman returned back to her book and continued to smoke her cigarette although Hermione couldn’t imagine there was anything left to smoke. Seeing that she was clearly dismissed, Hermione curtsied before exiting. Rosemary was standing in the doorway still whispering with the haughty girl when she emerged. 

It was only then, as she stared at the other girl that she finally processed what Alba Erica had said. 

_Mr. Dolohov was certainly taken with you._

_Oh, dear god._

As was the way of things, Hermione wasn’t even allowed the time to properly lose her head as she so desperately deserved to do. She’d have to wait until she was alone to consider that bit of information, among other things.

Rosemary looked impatient and unimpressed with her sudden bout of emotion. “That took forever. What’s your official name?”

“Tansy,” Hermione responded mechanically. Rosemary tilted her head to the side before shivering although there was no draft in the room. 

Something like awe or disgust came over Rosemary’s features. Whatever it was, Hermione had no use for it. 

“I have a bad feeling about you.”

Inwardly wrecked and quite at her limit, Hermione sneered back, “Perhaps, you should.”


	8. Lust- Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alliance is formed between Hydra and Hermione. The girls play a version of "Truth or Dare"; it ends with a bang.

  
  


**Lust- Chapter Seven**

That evening brought even more strange occurrences than the morning did. For reasons that were inexplicable to Hermione, half moon nights were gathering nights for the lower level girls. No guests were scheduled from 11:00 pm until dawn giving the girls a chance to congregate together to gossip and socialize with whatever wine or gifts they’d received to share amongst the group. Hermione had nothing to contribute, but Luna spotted her a box of chocolates Cormac had given her a few weeks back. 

“I’m still confused. Rosemary told me on my first night that I wouldn’t be getting any days off?”

Luna blinked at her. Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. “Rosemary was just being an arse, wasn’t she?”

Rather than responding, Luna just handed her another box of chocolates to tote over to the party.

Hermione cringed at the charity but Luna only stroked her hair in reply and whispered that sharing amongst friends was a luxury she was happy to afford. It was a losing battle either way as Hermione had nothing whatsoever, but she didn’t have to like it.

They congregated in Rosemary’s room which was much more lived in than Hermione’s. The hostess had a plush pink duvet with frilly pillow cases and several moving photographs of herself in outfits and costumes of all types. In each, the girl always managed to look breathless as though just photographed after a vigorous run with skin aglow but without the sweat or unkempt appearance. 

Unsure of how to proceed as Hermione was never the life of the party nor a “girl’s girl,” the newest hire stood at the periphery of the room observing the decor and trying not to look at any one person for too long. 

At a certain point, Luna slipped a champagne flute into her hand and whispered that Rosemary was showing off and it was best to fawn over Rosemary’s gifts from her clients if Hermione wanted any chance of having a decent time. Murmuring politely at Rosemary’s generosity only seemed to annoy the other girl only slightly less than Hermione’s general existence usually did. When praises had been bestowed, Rosemary turned back to whispering with Tulip, a pretty brunette who reminded Hermione so much of Padma Patil that it physically ached.

Feeling rather silly and out of her depth, Hermione faded farther into the background as the ten or so other girls conversed with lively voices and pleasant tinkling laughter. Hermione was sure that much of the laughter was directed at her, if the sneaky looks in her direction were any indication. 

The others were dressed well in light muslin slip dresses that could be appropriate for both beachwear and sleepwear, but with an elegant cut that fit each girl’s shape or sheer, gauzy dressing robes that outlined their curvy figures sensually. Hermione wore her simple cotton dress that looked more like window dressings than a proper outfit. She wondered who’d stolen her nice things and if that person were in this room too, sneering at her internally while giggling good naturedly on the outside. 

Veronica stopped in front of her while quickly pulling the empty glass from Hermione’s hand and swapping it with a new one. “Don’t you just hate these sort of things?” the younger girl whispered while stepping into Hermione’s space. 

Hermione must have made a strange face because Veronica laughed while downing her own drink in one go. The girl shook out her long hair by slowly whipping her head back and forth. It highlighted her long neck and Hermione looked away wondering if it felt as smooth as it looked. She wondered if Dolohov would have found it appealing and then she wondered why she cared- why she let him affect her so much. 

“We each take turns hosting these things, but unfortunately it’s Rosemary’s turn and we have to put up with that arsehole for the entire evening. The parties can be a real bore at the best of times but you look like you’re being tortured, which I have to admit is so ironic.”

“Why?”

  
“Because you’re the only interesting thing in the room. Everyone is talking about you. As much as I hate these see and be seen parties, I have to admit hearing all about you is rather entertaining.”

“I’m glad to be of service.”

Nodding before bursting into a laugh, Veronica said, “Yes, you certainly are. Now, let’s give these hens something to cluck about.”

“As in?” 

Veronica’s dark eyes twinkled in the candlelight giving her an angelic look though her brow was sweaty, bordering on feverish. “Night’s young. You’ll see a bit later on; just play along.” 

Hermione nodded although she wanted to object, and then watched the other girl flit away to get another drink. 

Sometime later, Veronica had not yet come back. The other girl seemed nice enough and Hermione found that she liked her, but the girl did seem to have had one too many glasses of champagne and probably forgot whatever scheme she’d thought up. Meanwhile, Hermione was still in the corner ringing the edge of her glass with her index finger in a silent tune. 

_Why was she even still at this party?_

The answer did not come to her and she decided this whole thing was a bust. Being a wallflower wasn’t going to aid her in being one of the top girls and she doubted associating with girls who hadn’t made it to the top either was a great use of time. She considered slipping out to the safety of her own room when Rosemary’s door opened quietly and someone new stepped inside. 

The conversation ended immediately like it did in those overly dramatic muggle movies Hermione used to watch. Hydra came in and closed the door silently. She stood for a moment as if searching for something and only stopped when her ice-colored eyes landed on Hermione. There was a change and it began with the blonde’s entrance. Hermione didn’t think too much about it at the time but would replay the scene in her mind later, examining the details and mining them for details. 

Her colleagues' liquid laughter seemed to have spilled onto the floor and shattered. None one bothered to clean it up for a time as they stared harshly at Hydra. If Hydra noticed or cared, she didn’t show it. 

The blonde pushed back her shoulders and crossed the room to Hermione’s side in a straightforward, but elegant manner, unlike the brothel girls that moved silkily, like fabric in the wind. In contrast, Hydra’s measured steps rather reminded Hermione of a man- a well-mannered man, but a man nonetheless. 

Hydra did not speak or even acknowledge anyone else in the room, save for Luna who she gave a brisk nod to before coming to stand with Hermione as though she belonged there. Those cold eyes rooted her on the spot and once again, Hermione felt a weird sense of uncanniness, as though observing a porcelain doll suddenly asking you about your day.

The other partygoers watched quietly as Hydra finally spoke, “Hello, Uni.” 

Hermione started for a moment before remembering that was Hydra’s ridiculous nickname for her.

“Tansy is fine, thanks.” 

Hydra raised an eyebrow at Hermione but did not comment. The other girl seemed content to stand there staring at her and it was then that Hermione returned her attention to the other guests. Everyone was watching and it made her feel exposed. Blame it on years of isolation, but Hermione really couldn’t stand it. 

“Everyone’s staring,” she said in a whisper, some of her anxiety from years on the run creeping into her voice.

Hydra’s voice was feathered at the end like a quill, giving a husky lilt to her voice as she spoke, “Isn’t that what ordinary people do? Isn’t that all they’re good for?”

Incensed but not sure why, Hermione responded hotly, “What do you mean ordinary people?”

“Being coy is rather cute, but don’t be naive. You’re something special like a golden egg and everyone just wants to know how easy you are to crack.”

“What about you? Everyone was talking until you came in.” Hermione couldn’t help but slip into back and forth confrontations with this woman. While they’d only interacted a few times, they were already in some strange not-quite rivalry. It would be easy to say the other woman was just jealous or an arse like Rosemary, but Hermione was clever enough to know better. 

There was a strange heat between them; every time they breathed the same air, it wavered as if ready to explode. If Hermione were a different sort of woman, she’d label it unresolved sexual tension, but she wasn't a different sort of woman, at least as far as she knew.

“If you’re the trophy, I’m the confessor. I’m a healer; I know everyone’s sins and they can’t stand me for it.” Hydra said those final words at a raised pitch so that her words circulated the entire room. They took immediate effect causing everyone else to go momentarily silent before restarting uneasy conversation. However, even as her words caused a stir, Hydra never once took her eyes off Hermione’s eyes.

“There are little flecks of gold in your eyes and they're a lot lighter brown when you get up close. I never noticed before.”

“We’ve met what, twice now? Why would you?”

Instead of answering, that secret smile came over the taller girl’s face and she instead said, “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”

Shrugging and breaking eye contact, Hermione said, “You look too smug as it is, and I doubt anything I can say could stop you from telling me so get on with it.”

“A few rather pretty standard issue dresses were just lying around on the second floor and I figured what better way to welcome you aboard than to give them to you. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of putting them inside your mail slot for safe-keeping, and while doing so, I just so happened to find a letter in there that I think you missed.” With that, the girl pulled a letter from inside her skirt pocket and handed it to Hermione.

There were several things that the other woman said that were notable, but it was what she didn’t say that left Hermione stirring. It was clear from the too direct tone and the other girl’s facial movements that she was conveying a much deeper message than the surface explanation she’d given. 

Feeding her curiosity, Hermione ripped open the letter and backed up to the wall so that no one could read over her shoulder.

The letter was short but written in beautiful, graceful slopes that made up for its cryptic message. The paper housing the message was made of thick paper stock and clearly expensive. The letter itself read:

_I sometimes lie awake at night wondering how easy it would be for Hermione Granger to rule the world if only she had the right book to tell her how. I’ve decided to wonder no longer. You’ll find a weighty tome underneath your bed. It won’t come out with others around; it gets shy._

_-Your Patron_

Knowing better than to openly gape, Hermione closed her features as she read and reread her note. She wanted to run to her bedroom and see just how many “gifts” she’d find waiting for her. A polite throat clearing brought her back to the present and she remembered Hydra was still watching her.

The blonde was smirking like she’d stolen a canary’s cream. “Good news?” 

Inserting the letter back into its envelope slowly as to not give away how eager she was, Hermione shrugged. Hydra was probably wrapped up in the mystery of whoever this “patron” was, and Hermione hadn’t forgotten Rosemary telling her of a man in high places who one did not ignore. There was no way the healer would come right out with the truth about whatever game she was playing. But, Hermione was tired, so tired of games for one day. So she did what felt right and went about getting the information she sought another way.

While Hermione was sneaky and resourceful at the best of times, she was still a Lion who enjoyed direct, even blunt communication as opposed to veiled subterfuge, especially after the day she’d had. Having not the mental space or patience to puzzle out the other woman’s words, Hermione simply asked, “You’re able to open other people’s mail slots and intercept their communications. I thought only the Madame or the room occupant could do that?”

“I can do _lots_ of things other people can’t.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and swept her gaze over the other girl’s bland expression. She was looking for anything that could help her make sense of this strange woman who seemed to always know more than anyone else. “You’re helping me,” Hermione started slowly, “and yesterday you said you wouldn’t do that unless you thought I was worth it. What’s changed?”

“The better question is what I want in return.”

Putting a hand on her hip to emphasize her point, Hermione replied, “Yet, that's not what I asked you."

Hydra narrowed her eyes and loomed over Hermione just a bit. She sized up the smaller woman and took stock of her hand before placing a small bet. 

“As I said, I keep secrets. That gives me some… leeway if you will. A whisper here, a correspondence there, you get it. I can find out what I want to know and I’ve got all the information I need on you. I work fast and you’ve made the cut; I’ll show you the ropes, protect you too. What happened with Dolohov won’t be repeated. Now to what I want is-” 

Accepting that response as best as she could, Hermione nodded and indicated that the other girl should just be out with it already. 

“You.” 

The word was cold as though the word itself had been sitting in the frozen cavern for years, hardening and splintering as time passed by but never breaking. It was the type of word, the type of sound, that carried with it a thousand sensations and feelings. It sounded like the first honest thing she’d heard since arriving at the Madame’s doorstep. 

Even still, it surprised Hermione, but she managed to stutter, “What?”

Hydra was unphased by her reaction and repeated herself, making her terms crystal clear. 

“In exchange for keeping you alive and relatively unscathed, when I call for you... When I _need_ you, there’ll be no questions. Do we have a deal?” 

The momentum Hydra’s daring statement had created between them halted suddenly and Hydra’s expressive countenance shut down leaving the pale blond blank-faced and leaving Hermione’s head spinning from the emotional acrobatics Hydra was doing.

“Need me for what?” she whispered harshly.

“Do we have a deal?” 

Hermione opened her mouth to protest again but recognized the look in the other woman’s eye. It seemed they could go no further until she had an answer to her question. 

Hermione found that she could not speak the words just yet whether it be an acceptance or a denial. Her skin was prickling with gooseflesh popping up on every inch of her exposed skin. She was on the precipice of something -- of what she couldn’t be sure -- but she knew that no matter what her response, things would change depending on her answer. 

And then, she recalled that Hydra had said she was a keeper of secrets. From what she could guess, but these weren’t silly confidences like who was squabbling with whom, but serious ones, perhaps even ones surrounding matters of state. 

After all, healers were a nearly extinct profession. With so few in the business, healers had access to all sorts of people, and all sorts of places. But Hermione didn’t think Hydra was the sort of person content to trade information for cheap champagne or pretty dresses, no, there was more to her than that. 

There was something feral in the girl’s manner that Hermione couldn’t describe. Something angry.

This Healer carried herself like an avenging angel waiting, biding her precious time until the moment when it was finally time to rain down hellfire to whoever stood in her path. It was as if she was giving Hermione an invitation. If she were at Hydra’s side, she too could watch it all burn down.

While Hydra might be a healer by trade, Hermione had already recognized from their brief interactions that her true specialty was computation, the study of facts and figures, and peddling information. Hermione knew well that information was knowledge and knowledge was power. She finally understood the true nature of what Hydra was offering up on a silver platter. And Hermione suddenly found herself ravenous. 

“Yes.”

They say the devil was beautiful before he fell; Hermione imagined his smile looked just like Hydra’s at that moment.

There was a clinking of glass and everyone turned to see Rosemary looking positively sinful, “Okay ladies, I am bored to tears and we’re all a bit looser so I think it’s the perfect time to indoctrinate Tansy into the fold. Time for a rousing game of _Questions and Commands_. Since this is my room, I’ll be the Commander. If I’m not satisfied with your responses then no one is.” A ripple of excitement bubbled up through the small crowd. Hermione had a feeling this was going to be bad or even worse, ridiculous.

Questions and Commands was an older version of Truth or Dare that hadn’t been either watered down or prettied up in its current form. It was twice as bad in the same way that Walt Disney's Ariel got her happy ending instead of dying gruesomely before being transformed into seafoam, like in Hans Christian Andersen’s original story.. At least, that’s how Hermione explained it to Harry several years ago when George got in his head to challenge the common room to play the game. 

The simple premise was any player had to either appease the “Commander” with their responses to any question they were asked or else face the consequences and those consequences were far more dangerous than just streaking down the street or phoning a crush on your mobile. It was usually messy and mean. Hermione wanted no part of it especially with drunk witches involved, even if most of them had a difficult time channeling their magic through inferior wands.

Hydra must have read her thoughts, because she leaned into Hermione’s ear and whispered, “Consider it practice,” before leaving the room. 

That didn’t surprise Hermione; she doubted someone with her knowledge would be welcome to play anyway.

“Come round. You ladies know how to do this. The oldest girl goes first- so that’s old Moony.” Rosemary indicated Luna and the other girl stepped forward as serene as ever. “Okay, Moony, go ahead and throw out a question.”

A dirty blonde-haired girl that Hermione hadn’t met yet protested, “That isn’t fair. Luna always gets to go first.”

Rosemary had donned a commander’s hat from goodness knew where and looked imperiously over the crowd appearing to consider it, “Argument heard. Request denied. Go on then Moony, don’t take all day. Crowd’s getting restless.” 

The two girls smiled at each other jovially and it was the first time she’d seen Rosemary smile. Her heart warmed for a moment; it seemed Luna brought out the best in literally everyone. 

Luna paused before posing the first question, “Tulip, how many clients have proposed to you?” 

Rosemary then handed Tulip a shot glass that the other girl downed immediately. The other girls cheered loudly as she did so. Tulip set down the glass then replied, “Moonflower, you ask the same question every time we play, but seven.”

“Good show,” Rosemary smirked, “The commander is pleased with your answer. Your point.” Veronica then wrote something down in her journal.

“Points?” Hermione whispered to Luna who’d only just rejoined her. 

“Rosemary never explains the rules very well. We don’t play for the fun of it or even for money, which really means nothing if we’re honest. We play for the only thing that matters.”

“Power.” Hermione finished.

“Yes, and the girls will start getting more vicious with their questions as things go on. If anyone knows any of your weaknesses, they will call you out.”

“What are the stakes?”

“All of the shot glasses are spiked with a modified Veritaserum. It won’t force you to answer but it will make sure you are truthful if you do speak. But, it burns and burns with the more answers you refuse to give. Most will faint or pass out halfway through so who’s ever left standing wins or who ever’s the most honest I guess.”

“Why would anyone agree to play that?”

“Whoever wins gets to use a full wand, completely uncapped, for the rest of the night. Not that most do much with it anyway, but it feels good anyway. Years and years of having your magic capped makes it dangerous to do any advanced wandwork on a true wand out of the blue.”

“Where did a full wand come from? Those things are priceless!” Hermione asked. 

Luna shrugged, “It's mine.”

“Why are you letting people borrow it? Why haven’t I seen you using it? How did you manage to keep it after the wand bans?” 

“It did seem fair for me to hoard all the power to myself. These girls need something to look forward to, besides I don’t go around telling people where I got it. That wouldn’t be very wise.”

Hermione’s face ran the gamut of emotions. Sometimes she really didn’t know whether to consider her friend a saint or a lunatic.

* * *

Two girls remained standing. Veronica and Hermione. Truth be told, Hermione was in the top two not because she was particularly more honest than the other girls, but because she had less to hide. Despite or perhaps because she was Undesirable Number One, most information about Hermione and her life was public knowledge. She supposed there was something to be said for being a national celebrity. 

Questions asked about her past during the game were mostly focused on her relationships and friendships. Hermione shouldn’t have been surprised. The other girls cared less about rebellions and political intrigue and wanted to know more about what Harry Potter’s favorite color was (blue) and was Ronald Weasley a good kisser (she supposed but a peck on the lips hardly counted her an expert). 

When she found herself annoyed with the questioning, Luna would saddle up beside her; the younger woman never said anything but her whole attitude seemed to scream, “Hermione, these women want fairytales not matters of state, just answer the bloody question.” Not that Luna would _ever actually_ speak that way, but such was Hermione’s mind after several shots.

Veronica, on the other hand, was given lightning round questions that seemed to be more and more spiteful as the evening wore on. From what Hermione could gather, Veronica was quickly gaining popularity amongst the clients and there was a strong possibility that she’d be moved up to the next floor in a few days. The claws were out and the cuts were deep. Still, Veronica managed to hold on to her lucidity despite countless shots and withheld secrets.

Everyone had either passed out or were too inebriated to continue save for Veronica, Rosemary, and Hermione. Rosemary, as the commander, had the honor of asking the final questions. She pulled out the full wand out of her pocket and tapped it against her palm before setting it down on the desk beside her. 

All evening Rosemary had been heavily drinking and growing more gleeful as the questions became crueler; she would lean in when answers were given; she seemed to absorb the embarrassment and humiliation like a sponge. She hadn’t asked any questions herself, as the overseer of the game, but she looked ready to burst. Hermione had no doubt whatever she would ask would be terrible.

After taking another shot, she nodded at Hermione indicating that it was Hermione’s turn. 

Rosemary stared down at Hermione with an evil chuckle, “So, you’re already Miss Popular, aren’t you, Tansy?”

“I’m sorry, but is that supposed to be a question?” Hermione asked.

The other girl sneered at her while Veronica giggled. “No, and just for that, I’m going to make this fun. What was it like being fucked by Antonin Dolohov in a Harry Potter suit? Did it compare to the real thing? I couldn’t help noticing that you seemed off all day.”

It must have shown on her face. Rosemary looked ecstatic and somewhere, far away, Veronica appeared to be protesting the questions. But Hermione hardly heard her new friend over the buzzing in her ears. 

“Rosemary,” Veronica rebuked tiredly, “This is supposed to be fun. Besides, no one’s around to hear you being mean, so you might as well wait until you have a proper audience. We both know you love public displays.”

Rosemary was visibly trembling, but whether it was from rage or too many drinks, Hermione couldn’t be sure. “Nothing we do here is for fun. Alba Erica was going to promote us both this time, but Little-Miss-Perfect comes here and all of a sudden, I’m old news?” 

“I’ve had enough of your attitude; you’ve been nothing but rude since I arrived. Are you that jealous that I’m supposedly taking all the attention off you?” 

Veronica made a strangled sigh and Hermione regretted having spoken.

“Oh, is this your way of changing topics? You still have to answer my questions,” In a mockery of sympathy, she patted Hermione’s head, “Hmm, so I had Dolly plenty of times and he is nothing if not a dedicated lover and he won’t stop until you’re begging for it. So tell me; I’m honestly curious since you’re so broken up about it...what really happened?”

“Just keep the wand, Rosie. Tansy, go back to your room,” Veronica pleaded.

The buzzing slid down from inside her ears causing vibrations to form under her skin. She ignored Veronica, focusing instead on Rosemary.

“We’re all down here in the muck together like pigs tipping each other over hoping to get more slop. We should be banding together...fighting this stupid government as a team. Can’t you see that?”

“Don’t you dare look down on me.” Rosemary had gotten close to Hermione. The only thing keeping them from being nose to nose was that ridiculous Commander’s hat that still sat on the other girl’s head. Before she knew what was happening, Rosemary had shoved her and Hermione tripped over something and landed on her bum.

“You think you’re better than all of us because you fought your designation, but what good did it do you? You’re still stuck in the ‘muck’ with us anyway. It’s high time you accepted that you belong on the ground staring up at _me_. Not the other way around; you think you’re the first girl who’s had a Dolohov? The first one who’s been hurt and bleeding? We’ve all paid our dues ten times over and you’ve only had one bad little night and Alba Erica’s already feeling sorry for you.”

“I didn’t ask to be here. I don’t want to be here,” Hermione cried and now she felt a burn accompany the vibrations under her skin, “I’m sorry you’ve dealt with horrible clients. I can’t know what that’s like, but it doesn’t change that I didn’t like what happened to me!”

“You’re weak,” Rosemary curled her lip in disgust. “If you can’t handle Dolly. He’s practically a saint compared to the clients I’m always given. Because I don’t cry and whine and mope around like the rest of these sops, I’m always given the hard clients: the ones that like to cut, the ones that like to drain you, but you have the nerve to look down on me.”

“I haven’t done anything of the sort.”

Rosemary started to laugh and Veronica had gone very silent. “Just being here is enough. Do you know how I got this job- how most of us did? We clawed our way out of those inferior brothels that half-starved and beat us by proving we were the best. We didn’t just stroll in like we owned the place on the first day. The Madame didn’t send for us; didn’t pay for us to come here. You did something by just walking through the door.”

Veronica wrapped her arms about herself and leaned against the bedpost, “Rosie, that’s enough. Just ask the last question so we can be done with this. I want to sleep.”

Hermione was barely listening now. Alba Erica had purchased her? This was simply too much to process.

“Of course, the final question. I nearly forgot, but I think I’ve figured out why you’re so hung up on this whole thing. Harry Potter didn’t think you were even worth pricking, did he? Well, I suppose old Dolly did you a real favor; and I bet you’re worried no one else will compare?”

Hermione would spend years loathing herself for what happened next. The memory of it would come to her in dreams like an apparition smothering her soul. She would remember it as the moment when the life she had known finally expelled the breath it had been holding. It was the moment that she lost the careful control that had kept her going and surviving for years; it was the moment that she made a mistake and it would cause someone their life.

Rosemary went flying across the room until her back made contact with the metal wall. Seemingly high on adrenaline, Rosemary hopped up and pulled a small knife out of her pocket. 

“How dare you?”

Hermione was stunned, and spent by the outburst of accidental magic. That hadn’t happened to her in years, since before she went to Hogwarts.

Veronica spoke for Hermione when she said nothing in response to Rosemary’s angry outburst. “It was an accident.” 

Hermione pushed the other girl back when Veronica attempted to stand between them as fast as she could. Rosemary’s judgment may have been clouded by alcohol but her hand was steady; she wouldn’t hesitate to lash out at Veronica to get to Hermione. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Veronica running behind them. Hermione kept her eyes glued on the rapidly advancing girl while calculating her odds of dodging towards the bedroom door. She moved quickly, but not quickly enough. Rosemary’s knife plunged into her shoulder before the girl pulled it back out and raised it again.

“Incarcerous,” said Veronica, raising the prized wand in her hands. Rosemary’s body was instantly arrested with ropes. 

Luna, like many others, had woken when Rosemary’s body hit the wall, screamed, “No, Veronica!”

Veronica continued to brandish the wand and said tiredly, “Accio knife!” She managed to grab the bloody blade and set it aside before her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed like a crumpled doll. Her use of magic to save Hermione had been her very undoing.

If Rosemary’s cruel words were the flint then Hermione’s first bout of accidental magic in decades was the flame that ignited everything in its path.

  
  



	9. Lust bleeds into Gluttony and Greed- Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after the game, Hermione runs into Draco Malfoy.

Lust bleeds into Gluttony and Greed

  
  


**_Spring- Three Months After Game Night_ **

Hermione was seasoned and salted in many things including death. She’d rocked a rasping, shuttering child elf as it clung to her in its final moments while its mother pulled at her ears and shrieked. Hermione had covered and shrouded Harry’s body as they prepared his grave. As the closest thing to family that he had left, it had been her duty to bury him (not to mention there hadn’t been many people left to do it). There had been countless others that she watched wilt away and she’d cataloged each one, properly labeling them in her mind like closed case boxes that she could shelve in a cold corner of her mind for safekeeping.

Every death carried a different weight, took a different toll, and so had Veronica’s. It had been like a limp-legged foal galloping to freedom for the first time. Hermione, the watcher and the recorder of the event, had held the Ravenclaw’s slender hand in a comforting grip to match the unbreakable hold the dying girl had on her hand.

The exertion of unfettered magic had been too much. As the hours passed, Veronica had barely clung to life and it seemed to Hermione that the only thing grounding the other girl to life was their intertwined fingers. It was as if Veronica wanted to slip beyond the veil and escape to that magical place where it was sunrise all day long, where the other girl could become the very morning light she so craved. 

They’d never spoken directly of it, but Hermione knew that’s what they had both waited for all night. The two of them had that in common, amongst other things, including a thirst for knowledge and a listening ear. They were the only two early risers on their floor and in the last few months they had instituted a morning ritual: both girls collecting their mail well before anyone else and staring out the window at the end of their hall together as the magical morning light of a new day danced on their soft skin and made angelic halos on their hair. 

And now, after hours sitting together in the darkness, Hermione had moved to take her out into the hall one last time, despite Hydra’s protestations, to watch the world wake in resounding color and blinding light. 

Hydra was surprisingly strong. When Hermione insisted, the Healer easily swept Veronica into her arms and carried her to the window, where the three faced the dawn. No one spoke as the world outside their small window yawned and shook as if rising from a long slumber. Veronica made a soft noise and pointed towards the window. The wild pear tree outside was blooming with pretty white flowers that had blushing stamens ready to be expelled to breed new fruit. 

Hermione opened the window, instinctively knowing there wasn’t a moment to spare. 

As she did, the wild fruit’s fragrance fluttered through the air wrapping its agrestal scent about the three of them and settling on their unbound hair like flower crowns. 

Veronica, resplendent, though shaking and sweating, reached out for Hermione’s hand once more and she took it without a thought. The offered hand was even damper than it had been before and Hermione chanced a sideways glance at the dying girl. 

The pallor undercutting her pretty dusk colored skin had slipped away and there was a regal tilt to her face as she faced the upcoming day; she reminded Hermione of an aging monarch gracefully stepping down to allow someone newer to be crowned queen. It hurt to look at her, so Hermione looked at Hydra instead. 

The healer was expressionless save for her hard eyes that seemed to chill even more as the warm sun arose. Hydra inclined her head to Hermione; and she realized that the pair of them were old pros in the art of tragedy. Hermione knew a kindred soul when she saw one. 

A gleeful exhale that was too tired to be a true giggle gurgled out of Veronica’s mouth. “Oh, it’s so beautiful. Isn’t it, Tansy?” Her dark eyes were glassy, more from sickness than tears, and she cupped her mouth with her free hand as though it were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. 

Sparing a glance at the sunrise, Hermione smiled fondly at her new friend even though it made her heart hurt; she’d been a coward moment’s ago but she had to face this for Veronica. It truly was lovely. The sunrise was behind puffy clouds and cast strange colors about the sky, clashing blues and violent violets swirling against radiant oranges and ruby reds. It reminded Hermione more of a sunset and she swallowed the lump in her throat because she realized it was fitting. 

Then, she was conscious that she was squeezing the hand in hers with more force than it was holding hers in return; she grasped at Veronica’s pulse point it was so faint. Hermione did not look over this time. She decided that she could not look again and her bravery had its limits. The hand was not cold yet, nor overly loose so she knew the other girl still clung to life, but after a long moment, the hand fell away and she heard Hydra’s boots recede down the hall with Veronica for the last time. 

Hermione listened for a stuttering breath- that shaky sigh that had become Veronica’s signature in the several months leading up to her death, but she heard nothing save for the wild pear tree branch softly hitting the window glass from a light breeze and soft shutting of a door behind her.

Hermione hadn’t realized she was shaking until Luna wrapped her arms about her while turning Hermione until her forehead was tucked under Luna’s chin. 

When her head rose from Luna’s welcoming chest, the sun was already making its slow trek to a higher place in the sky.

“You did well,” Luna whispered as she released Hermione. 

At that moment, Hydra caught her eye as she emerged from the death room with a grimace. Their eyes locked and Hermione heard the girl more loudly than any amplifier ever could. When Hydra tipped her head at Hermione, her ice-cold eyes said, “ _You did well, but we will do_ **_even_ ** _better. Won’t we?”_

_“Yes,”_ Hermione responded with a fire burning in her eyes, _“We will.”_

* * *

The day after Veronica died, the weather changed. A subdued hue of sorrow colored the sky a wane gray, gave the women a sickly pallor and dampened everyone’s spirits. But the sadness following Veronica’s death was so light in color that it was easily ignored by most, an occupational hazard perhaps, or a situation that could have been avoided. But for Hermione, it was like an itch that refused to be scratched, the dull pain stretched on and eventually, even the clouds were affected. The beautiful spring season was interrupted by freezing rains that turned the ground to slush and nipped the buds off leaves. 

Of course, this did not affect the Sugarhouse’s powerful charms that blocked the real weather’s effects from the brothel grounds, but like an omen, the terrible weather flashed right outside their door and put everyone in a foul mood.

Despite this, the Madame conducted a short farewell ceremony in the back gardens of the Sugarhouse and even canceled all appointments for the evening in solidarity with Veronica. It was bizarre to walk through the perfectly sunny and warm gardens under a literal bubble that kept the pouring rain from beating down on their heads. The effect was eerie, like hearing a hauntingly sad harpsichord being played in another room even though you lived alone.

Alba Erica wore the thickest mourning veil Hermione had ever seen as she marched Veronica’s brothel cuff in a glass box to be buried. It allowed the mysterious woman’s true identity to remain hidden.

Alba Erica’s voice was tight as she spoke about surprisingly intimate knowledge of the pretty Ravenclaw’s life as if she’d known the girl, as if she’d cared. She knew that Veronica always woke at sunrise and enjoyed blood sausage even though most other girls couldn’t stand it. She peppered her speech with those sorts of tidbits like small sprinkles of information that could have easily been learned moments before the funeral but Hermione was still touched despite herself. It was nice to hear that Alba Erica had bothered to learn about Veronica at all and made her life seem less mundane and more important.

Her hopeful mood soured when Hermione heard some higher-level girls whispering that Veronica’s client had paid to have the body properly buried and that was why there wasn’t a casket. Hermione’s blood burned. Hydra had told her it was York Yaxley, Corban Yaxley’s younger brother that had overloaded Veronica. He was the reason she was dead and he had the gall to purchase her remains? Hermione was sickened and felt guilty despite Luna and Veronica insisting she hadn’t been at fault.

York Yaxley, a top Ministry Monk and potioneer, had been experimenting on Veronica’s magical core for over a year. He’d overstimulate her core some days with spellwork and potions then force her to perform wandless magic until she was magically exhausted. By the end, her magic was so unbalanced that all her organs had to work three times as hard to keep her body going. In the end, her heart couldn’t take the strain and she was gone.

He claimed those experiments were necessary to better understand the effects of capping magical output and banning most wand usage. Hermione supposed he could have been telling the truth but forcing a defenseless girl to be a test subject until her unstable magic killed her made him a murder. She didn’t care why he’d done it.

A quiet sniffle brought Hermione back to the moment. Someone else was speaking now, a girl Hermione had never seen before. While it was hardly an appropriate time, Hermione couldn’t help noticing that all of the employees were out at once. This was the first time all the brothel’s girls had been all together and there were at least 30 girls in total. Many girls looked apathetic and hardened, some uncomfortable, a handful sad, and one girl was absolutely numb- Luna.

Luna stood next to Hermione; her fingers were in her pockets and her braid was tightly bound and looked uncomfortable as it pulled her hair too taut. The woman’s entire demeanor reminded Hermione of a person walking blind and bruised through a twisted forest, but without any fear of death. 

Her friend always had lots of expressions and looks throughout the year, though many of them had a kind of soothing vacancy that left the observer feeling calm. However, to look at her at the moment, Hermione could only feel rough and scarred. 

Alba Erica called the spectators to sing a dirge for Veronica and everyone began humming the same funeral hymn that all wizards sang on these occasions. Rote memory allowed Hermione to follow along but her eyes stayed on Luna whose sweet voice was chapped with guilt as she sang. The crescendo reached and the collective undulated their voices to match, but it appeared as if at any moment, Luna would crawl out of her skin. 

Fearful, Hermione broke protocol and wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist. The song’s final melody crashed through the crowd then so no one noticed when Luna detached herself and walked swiftly back inside. Searching for direction, Hermione saw Alba Erica’s face turn towards her and the quickly exiting Luna. She couldn’t be sure (the veil was unbelievably thick), but she was sure that the Madame was appraising her, waiting to see what Hermione would choose to do: stay in the assembly or break off. As if there was _ever_ any doubt.

With a silent apology to Veronica, Hermione walked as softly as she could until she was around the side of the house and away from onlookers and followed Luna down the path, back to the rest of the gloomy, drizzling Brothel District.

  
  


Hermione had regrown some muscle mass and fat tissue now that she was fed proper meals and no longer stressed about where she’d take shelter on a daily basis, That being said, she had finished growing long before that period, and she knew she would never be tall. She would never be tall. Catching up to Luna’s long strides, while also not trying to draw unwanted attention to herself or yelling for her friend to slow down was particularly difficult. She waited until she’d reached the invisible barrier barring the Sugarhouse on the hill from the rest of the town before finally yelling for Luna to stop.

The blonde stopped for a moment. She stood ramrod straight for a long moment. It was the closest thing to an invitation that Hermione felt she was going to get. Hurrying to catch up, Hermione grabbed Luna’s hand and clutched it tightly. The other girl wasn’t going to get rid of her so easily again. 

The pair walked through the dirt-stomped streets at a quick pace. Hermione tried to catch snatches of conversation and orient herself but could not stop for long for fear of losing Luna again. The area looked prettier than it had when she’d arrived here four months ago in the dead of winter. The streets weren’t muddy or filled with holes, the brothels looked less dingy than they had with pretty wildflowers springing up between crevices and cracks defiantly and even the brothel workers and patrons appeared more subdued by spring afternoon light. 

As they walked, they turned onto a side street that opened to a town square. The area looked clean with cobblestone streets and well-made buildings. It appeared to be a market or shopping area of sorts and it put her in mind of Hogsmeade’s quaint little town center. And there were people everywhere: some selling goods, others selling food and drink, and several open shops sporting the latest items with shoppers milling about calmly.

“Where are we? I didn’t know this was here?” Hermione asked. 

Luna nodded in acknowledgment that Hermione had spoken but did not respond.

Their direction changed suddenly; previously they’d stuck to the periphery of the action with their hands slightly down. No one really noticed them, but Luna turned on her heel as they neared the gazebo sitting in the center square. The unexpected turn caused them to nearly bowl over a Monk. Luna gave a perfunctory apology but did not stop to assess the situation. The pair crossed the gazebo in no time, but Hermione’s protests fell on deaf ears. 

It was only when they’d started walking towards a large estate sitting proudly across from the gazebo that Hermione finally guessed Luna’s plan. The building stood tall and Hermione speculated from the direction of the other buildings and the way the cobblestoned streets were arranged, that this estate was the original structure in the town with everything else built up around it. 

Calculating quickly, Hermione grabbed Luna’s arm, “Is this the Mage Bishop’s mansion? The Mage Bishop for the Brothel District?” 

When Luna only stared at her, Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. 

“Luna, what are we doing here? We can’t just march inside!”

“You should not have come. You don’t have permission to leave the Sugarhouse grounds.” 

Luna’s wispy reply made the other girl’s temper flare.

“You don’t either! I wasn’t going to just let you run off by yourself and I’m glad I did come; this is completely idiotic. What are you thinking?”

Squeezing their still-clasped hands hard, Luna gave her a thin smile, “Veronica was a person. The Mage Bishop should know what has happened.”

“I highly doubt he’s particularly concerned about one of his Monks abusing-”

Luna interrupted Hermione by untangling herself from Hermione and sprinting up the marble steps leading to the house. “Wait for me outside.”

Growling and picking up the long skirt of her dress, Hermione whispered, “Like hell,” and took the steps two at a time to catch up.

* * *

There had always been something peculiar about Luna that Hermione hated, even if everyone else found it whimsically endearing. There was a subtle stubbornness simmering under those blinking owl-like eyes. Harry found it precious, Ronald called it loony, but secretly thought it was attractive. However, it annoyed the living hell out of Hermione. Maybe in that way, they were too much alike. Not that anyone else would have noticed. 

That same stubborn stripe that ran through her friend carried them into that estate with absolutely no problems. Luna’s wide eyes blinked at the elf who greeted them and seemed so sure that the master would in fact see her that even the elf believed it. 

They were ushered through a dark corridor before being deposited in front of two heavy oak doors. The elf entered the room first and his soft tones could barely be heard, let alone the specifics of what he said. Hermione feared the elf might be secretly leading them to some sort of punishment. Perhaps the Mage Bishop would have them personally disciplined for being bold enough to enter his house…

“The master will see the lady now.” Luna smiled at the elf and swept past him and Hermione made to follow, but the elf put up a tiny hand. “He’ll see _only_ the lady. You will wait here.”

Before Hermione could begin to argue, Luna poked her head out and smiled softly, “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

The other girl was soon gone and Hermione found herself pacing the floor. No sound could be heard from the room’s interior even when she pressed herself up against the door. Mage Bishops had access to real wands and had no magic caps so the room had probably been silenced.

“How is it that no matter how much time has passed, you remain the same?” 

The voice behind her was familiar. She hadn’t heard it in five years, but it was the voice of her first crush and her first heartbreak; the boy who taught her that prejudice didn’t just exist in the muggle world but would follow her into the magical one too. Naturally, she recognized it instantly, even if it had grown huskier and silkier. It was a voice that reminded her of rushing waters spilling out of a cool spring. Dangerous and deep.

She turned to face him even though her heart was racing. He was wearing a heavy woolen cloak, dark trousers, and expensive dragonhide boots. Somewhere along the way, he must have stopped gelling his hair, as it had a slight wave that almost formed curls. It reminded her of how it looked at the final battle as his mother begged him to fall into her arms from the other side of the field. Despite the terrible reminder of the day she’d lost so much, Hermione couldn’t help finding this older version unfairly attractive.

He’d grown into his pointy features that now looked angular and chiseled. His upper body wasn’t overly built but he wasn’t lanky or frail. He was leaning against a marble post, staring at her with his arms crossed. The light pooled around him from a far off window that cast perfect shadows and lit his angles just so. If she wasn’t a few paces away from him, she would have sworn he was a sculpture perfectly carved from the finest ivory. 

His shirt was just on the other side of too tight; he was able to showcase his defined upper arms and trim waist. His strong frame spoke to extensive exercise and heavy lifting. He hadn’t gotten that fit from sitting around and being lazy. Malfoy’s upper back rested against the post allowing his long, toned legs to spread out before him to give him the perfect silhouette. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder how someone was always able to position themselves in a way that always made them look appealing. 

At first, she thought the feeling welling up inside her was annoyance. Of course, Malfoy looked amazing while she looked exhausted and overwrought. Then, as she continued to stare openly at him, she accepted that what she was really feeling was a completely new sensation. It was akin to the feeling she’d got when Victor held her by the waist as they danced, but if that feeling were a wave, this one was a rip current pulling her under until she sank to the ocean floor. 

Inwardly, she gasped for breath. She was smart enough to know what she was feeling now.

In an effort to steady herself more so than for actual conversation, Hermione replied, “I’d ask what you meant by that but I’ve learned not to rise to the occasion when it comes to your taunts,” Hermione answered. 

“This isn’t school, Granger,” Malfoy said as he pushed his upper body off the post. He adjusted his cuffs, momentarily looking down but advancing on her all the same. Quickly he was in her space and he let his wrists drop and his eyes pull up to her face. His gorgeous frost-colored eyes never failed to make her mouth go dry and her heartbeat rapidly. It may not have been school anymore but his effect on her hadn’t changed. 

“And, I don’t have time for games. These days I usually say what I mean. I have no reason not to and I have no need to hide, so when I say it's good to see you, it _is_ good to see you.”

“You didn’t say it was good to see me. You said I hadn’t changed,” she shot back.

He arched a glacial eyebrow before saying, “Who said they don’t mean the same thing?”

Her old rival watched her so carefully without interruption, without stepping out of her space that she grew uncomfortable and could no longer maintain his gaze. She didn’t want to look like she was giving in, so she pulled her hair out of its ponytail in a pretense of letting it out. She shook out her wild kinky curly hair and his sharp eyes tracked the movement. Subtly, she moved back a step. Instantly she could breathe better though she did miss the gasping feeling his sheer closeness created inside her.

He tried again, “Why are you here? I didn’t realize the Madame was allowing girls to do house calls now.” He tapped her brothel cuff with a slender finger. Malfoy said it as a matter of fact and without even a hint of taunting and yet still she felt ashamed. She had no idea what his designation was, but from his expensive clothing and spicy cologne, Hermione knew he was well above her in wealth and rank. He was above her in every way but the way she wanted him to be.

_ Wait...what did she just think? _

“The Madame is more than willing to accommodate her guests,” Hermione said quickly hoping that would appease him and stop her inappropriate thoughts. 

A raptorial look crossed his face as though any minute, he’d swoop in and drag her away. He smirked and leaned into her and she froze. His hand reached out and-

Knocked on the door behind her. His lips were near her ear when he said, “Thank you for informing me; I’ve been in the market for some new forms of entertainment.”

Hermione could hardly hear over the sound of her heart thumping in her chest. Her lips parted slightly but no words or even sounds escaped. He moved away from her slowly, deliberately, and even used his fingers to move her out of the way as the doorknob twisted behind her. Malfoy stepped around her to put a hand on the door to open it.

The moment was quickly evaporating around her and a stray feeling hit her. She didn’t want their chance meeting to end so soon. If anyone asked, she’d say she wanted to extend their conversation because of her nerves or fear that she’d have to face a hurt or beaten Luna and wanted to delay the inevitable, but she’d be lying. She said what she said next because she wanted to. It was that simple.

“It was good to see you, too, Malfoy.”

His fingers paused on the door, but he did not look back or acknowledge that she’d said anything. The only real indication that he’d heard her at all was the rigid set of his back. 

A voice greeted them from inside the room just as Malfoy began turning his head towards her. At the sound of the voice, his face snapped forward, “Mage Bishop Malfoy, I apologize for the delay. I had a matter to attend to. Please come in.”

Hermione swallowed thickly as Malfoy said, “Of course, Mage Bishop Ollivander.” She could hear the sound of hands clasping as the door hinges creaked signaling that the door was being opened wider.

The door was opened in such a way that Hermione couldn’t see the Mage Bishop greeting his guest and she was glad for it. That was simply too many revelations to deal with in the span of five minutes and didn’t need a reunion with the old wandmaker too. Luna slipped out the door and Ollivander quietly said, “Careful on the way back, Moonflower.”

She heard Luna respond in kind as Malfoy’s heavy boots crossed over the threshold. Her blonde friend walked towards her and Ollivander’s door began to shut. Hermione began to greet Luna when she felt something softly tap at the ice palace in her head and the softest, deepest voice floated through her mind- more delicate than the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings- and clearly said, “You say it’s good to see me as if we won’t be seeing each other again very soon.”

Hermione shivered and once again found herself gaping at nothing. Luna noticed. “Are you okay, Hermione?”

“Of course I’m not,” she responded to quickly channel her excess energy at anything else but what she’d just heard. It was easier to get into character than she’d thought. She was pretty pissed at Luna and asked, “What were you thinking?”

Luna grabbed her hand and began walking through the house, but not in the same way they’d come in. 

“I’m sorry to worry you, but I had to say something. What happened to Veronica wasn’t okay, but I trust Ollivander. I do,” the tall blonde whispered that last part with such strong conviction that Hermione wondered who she was trying to convince. 

As usual, Hermione was left with more questions than answers. 

* * *

  
  


The next morning there was that phantom knock at her door signifying that her mail had been delivered and she realized she’d been laying in the same spot for hours replaying the previous day, trying to arrange puzzle pieces together that didn’t fit.

She had to put those thoughts away for now, though. It was morning and she was expected to read her correspondence, answer where appropriate and then prepare for her guests. 

Hermione rolled over and slowly pulled herself up and went to the door. In her mailbox sat a lone letter and she quickly picked it up and went back inside. She dropped the letter onto her writing desk and she ripped it open as soon as she collapsed into her desk chair. 

To her surprise, It was actually not a letter or card, but a photograph that had been doctored to show herself lounging on a library table in what she imagined was the restricted section of Hogwarts’ Library. Her likeness looked completely debauched with her hair wilder than usual, a sensual smirk on her lips, and her tight school uniform perfectly displaying her curves.

There were thousands of open texts piled up around her with written words floating up from each book. The Hermione in the photo appeared to be sucking in all the words like Ambrosia of the gods. Her mirror image seemed positively stuffed on her rich diet as she licked her plump lips.

Once done consuming the words like a succubus, the girl picked up one last volume and a drawing of a man could be seen on the cover. She watched the image in the photo reach into the book and began pulling the illustration from its page. 

The man’s back was facing the observer, so the real Hermione couldn’t see his face, not that she didn’t have a good idea who it was. His beautiful blond hair would have tipped her off if the Slytherin tie hadn’t. 

As soon as the man was standing before Photo Hermione, the girl yanked his tie and pulled his face close to hers.

The Photo Hermione stopped right as the man’s lips were about to meet hers to wink over his shoulder at the viewer.

Then, words appeared above Photo Hermione’s head briefly before the scene looped again like a cassette tape.

_ “Veracity or Voracity: Which will my lady choose?  _

_ I suppose we’ll find out on Friday when you take a portkey to my apartment. I’d also like my cloak back. I told you we’d be seeing each other soon. _

_ Your Patron, _

_ Draco Abraxas Malfoy _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> “Encouraging Comments Only”  
> The author of this story prefers to receive constructive criticism only from trusted sources. They’d like to hear encouragement to continue writing, but don’t want to have to answer and have a dialogue with a stranger who has opinions on what they should change.


End file.
